


All Stories Are Echoes

by sebastianL (felix_atticus)



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: A Dangerous Amount of Introspection, Character Study, Even's Perspective, Love Stories, M/M, Mental Illness, Original Characters - Freeform, Post Series, Reconciliation, Slow Burn, Tragedies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-01-05 02:17:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 72
Words: 123,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12180960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felix_atticus/pseuds/sebastianL
Summary: This is about potential--realized or not--memory, bravery, movies, accidents, and the nature of stories. Also love, because what other kind of story could it be?





	1. Freyja and Óðr

**Author's Note:**

> A love story. Because that's the kind of story it has to be.  
> The usual warnings up front. For those who are new, this is the one place where I tell you what you can expect for triggers--there will be no warnings for individual chapters. This story, by the nature of its characters, will deal with mental illness, suicide, breakups, heartache, and death. If you are easily put off by those things, this will not be the story for you.  
> As for the rest of you, please enjoy this strange meander through a few months in the life of one of my favourite characters. This is an Even who's grown up, who's had hard years since the last time we saw him, and who's trying to get his life back together on his own. For those of you who like long reads, strap in--it's well over 120k.  
> This is a complete work, with uploads every other day, and there will be a week long break between Parts 1 & 2, as well as Part 2 and the finale.  
> Dedicated, of course, to the two of you. No man could ask for better friends. All my love--now have some angst.

_Freyja and_ _Óðr_

_Freyja was a goddess of love and sex, a seductress, a sorcerer. She was the goddess of beauty and death and this seems like a fair match because death has its own kind of beauty and things are beautiful only because they are fated not to last. She wore a necklace that had its own name and a cloak made of falcon feathers and was a fashion icon. Her pet was a boar and no one talks much about her daughters because their mother was so much more interesting._

_Her husband was Óðr. He was a storyteller, a man of inspiration, a creative, an international pop icon. He might have also been her father in another life, but that’s neither here nor there. Óðr was the kind of man who comes along once in a lifetime, like Freyja was the kind of woman who comes along once in an age, and together they burned bright and hard and when their bodies came together they raised mountains and birthed poetry and blinded mere mortals with the power of their mutual bliss._

_It was a love like no other love, which is what everyone in love thinks about their love, and there were happy days, incandescent days, days that made the possibility of paradise seem like an eternity in primary maths, because they were so special, so fucking special, and this was better than anything else could ever be, because they had discovered the secret love that others couldn’t possibly achieve. It was a kind of love mania, and they wrapped themselves in it tight and tighter and tight as they could stand and then some more._

_Like all love stories, it is not a happy story._

_Óðr would leave. He would have so many ideas and Freyja would tell him to come back to bed but he couldn’t, because when the ideas came he could not stop them, you can’t ever really stop the good ideas, the big ideas, the crazy ideas. An idea is a cancer that explodes beyond all control if you try to suppress it. The only thing to do is let it come, and so Óðr would let the ideas come in, and if there was one there were a thousand, and when there are a thousand ideas in your head, it is impossible to stay in one place. So he would roam, walking through each idea, letting them catch light and some extinguished themselves and others became solid and took flight and still he walked and ran and danced across the face of the globe, because one cannot be still when the ideas arrive. One cannot still their feet when the ideas flock or your brain will explode and there can be no more ideas if the insides of your head are plastered across the wall. Ideas are madness, but it is greater madness to deny them._

_So he would go and Freyja would stay. That is how it works in some stories. One person goes and the other person stays. She stayed because she did not have the ideas. She knew so many things that Óðr didn’t, but she did not know what it was to have this onslaught in her mind, and she could not understand why he went. All she knew was her sorrow at his departure. At first, all she did was cry. Even her agony was beautiful, because she cried so hard that she wept tears of gold._

_He would come back when all the ideas had finally quieted, and their joy was rapturous, and the murmurs at the edges of Freyja’s heart would still, and for a time she would forget that this would not last. These things just don’t last; it is not their nature. They would lie upon their bed and touch one another’s faces and recite lyrics to their favourite songs and she would tell him about the fallen warriors she had claimed for her hall and he would look into her eyes that wept gold and he told her again and again how much he adored her._

_Then he would leave._

_There were times when Freyja could bear it no longer and she would search for him. She would wear her falcon cloak and combat boots and take a handful of names and she would travel to lands where they had never given sacrifice for her and she would ask if they had seen her love, if her husband had passed their gaze, and the answer was sometimes yes and sometimes no. She would cross the earth weeping gold, everything else forgotten, the children, the warriors, the other gods, all for the focus on this one thing, this man, this obsession. There were a few times where she caught up to him, and she would bring him home as he spoke of his ideas, and she would weep for those ideas too, the ideas that kept him from her, but he would return to their bed finally, and she would lay her head down in exhaustion but fearing sleep, for what if he wasn’t there when she woke? They did this down the centuries, and Freyja loved her husband, but she hated him too, thinking this only in the moments when he first returned. Then she would forget again, and she would love him with her whole heart._

_Love stories are all sad stories, because people break up or they die, but this story is truly awful. Óðr went walking and Freyja could not find him and then came the death of the gods, the apocalypse, where the earth was scoured clear except for one tree, two humans (meaning we are all the product of primeval incest) and Freyja. She was the only god to survive, which was her destiny._

_That’s where the story ends, and that’s why it’s the worst story of them all. The story ended and she was still there, but there was no_ more _. Just an open-ended plain with no love and no warriors and no bed with rumpled sheets or the sound of his voice whispering in her ear. It was just her, alone, with two humans who were too busy repopulating the earth to pay her any mind, and the memories, but no way forward. The story was done but she remained._

_So people might think that I would identify with Óðr but I think I see myself in equal measures in the two of them. I’m a madman, and I know what the ideas can do and what they feel like, but I know what it is to be the only one left when the story stops. I know what it’s like when the great love saga ends and there’s nothing but a big empty space, earth blasted clear and the sky dark and nonetheless with the expectation that life is supposed to go on. Go on. Only people who aren’t storytellers would suggest such a thing. They don’t understand._

_Nor do I, I suppose, in the end._

_Anyways. I made a lot of this up. But it doesn’t mean it’s not true_. 


	2. Chapter 2

I like the cane.

            Mine is remarkably boring. It’s just a cane. It’s wooden and parts of it are slightly glossy where the lacquer hasn’t worn off, but it hasn’t been lacquered in a very long time.

            _That_ cane looks like something from a movie.

            I’m still listening to Mette. I am, really. But I push myself up and walk over to the wall, leaning a bit on my boring cane to do so. The wall is lined with old costumes, boxes with props overflowing them. It’s the kind of place I’d consider a small paradise, and Mette knows it, I know that she knows it.

            I rest my cane against the boxes and pick up the other one. I wondered for a moment if it would be fake, just a hollow thing to look good from the stage. But it is the real deal. Heavy in my hands. Black, except for the silver handle, which has oxidized and turned black in the grooves.

            Fucking gorgeous.

            I feel Mette’s eyes on me, and I say, “I’m listening. But you had to know what I’d be like if you brought me back here.”

            I glance over at her, and she smiles crookedly. She’s half turned in her chair to look back at me. “I’ll admit,” Mette says, “I _do_ expect an early 90s Julia Roberts montage from you at some point in the next half hour.”

            “ _Pretty Woman_ or _Sleeping with the Enemy_?”

            She plays with the ends of her black curls, thinking about it. “Let’s say _Pretty Woman_. The one in _Sleeping with the Enemy_ is really misplaced.”

            “But that’s what makes it amazing.”

            I flip the cane over, twirling it in my hand. My leg might be shot, some days more than others, but everything else works just fine. Oh, this cane is perfectly balanced. Sometimes I find myself absently spinning mine while I sit out in public, and I don’t realize what I’ve done until I see the looks I’m getting. If people are close enough, I smile and tell them I’m preparing for a performance in a musical. They never believe me, but they often smile back.

            “So you have good news,” I say, tossing up the cane and catching the bottom in the palm of my hand. I balance it, watching it wobble.

            “I have good news that I am very excited to share with you.”

            “Good news that warranted scenery.”

            “Possibly. I—you might not be too happy with me. So I thought I’d wear you down first with good surroundings.”

            I give her a look, still balancing the cane in the palm of my hand. Okay. Interesting. I like interesting. I like being brought to the costume and props department by a friend who says she has news. I like it enough that I don’t even get worried about what this possibly unhappy news might be.

            “Hmm,” I say. “Good news that might make me unhappy with you. I’m officially intrigued.”

            “So do you want to hear my news?”

            I nod. “I want to hear your news.”

            Mette takes a deep breath, hooking her arm over the back of the chair. When she looks at a person, she looks straight on, with big black eyes that rarely waver. And I adore that about her, no matter her other faults. “Do you remember that script I was working on?”

            Um…

            Right. “Yeah,” I reply. “I do. You were asking me all those really rude questions all the time.”

            “You son of a bitch, you said it was fine!”

            I laugh and shake my head. “I’m teasing, it was fine.”

            Mette rolls her eyes. “See, you’re a terrible friend. I shouldn’t even tell you my news.”

            Catching the cane, I use it to walk back to her. “No no no. Tell me your news. I’m a good friend. I want to hear everything.”

            The cane holds up perfectly under my weight, which isn’t saying much because I’ve always been thin. I lean into it a little. Nope, still perfect. I sit down across from her, planting the cane between my knees, resting my hands on top, and I raise my brows at her.

            Mette sits so that we’re facing each other, laying her hands on her thighs. “All right. So…I wrote that script. And I told you that one of the characters was bipolar and that’s why I was asking all those rude questions you’re teasing me about now.”

            “Yes.”

            “The thing is, it wasn’t just one of the characters. It’s the main character.”

            “All right.” She’s leading up to something. I’m a storyteller and so is she and this is just how you reel someone in.

            Mette breathes deeply. “There is…a lot of you in the main character.”

            Most people might think that was weird. I’m actually a bit flattered. My mouth spreads into a grin, and I say, “You wrote a script where I was the main character?”

            “ _No_. I wrote a script where the main character has a lot in common with you.”

            “Like what?”

            “Just—personality things.” She pauses, then adds, “I also 100% stole the Sherlock Holmes rant and that time you broke into the bar.”

            My jaw drops, and I give her mock offended eyes. “You’ve stolen my whole life!”

            Mette spreads her hands. “Well, your life is interesting.”

            I balk at that a little. I really do, inside, but I don’t let her see that. “Well, I’ve cannibalized my life enough times for my stories. It makes sense that other people would too.” I say it, but I’m not sure I mean it. A person has two things, really: their name and their story. Everything else is ephemera.

            She snaps the fingers on both hands, and I realize that she’s actually properly nervous. It’s only a thing she does when she’s really worried about something. “Here’s the tough part. The part that might make you a little upset with me.”

            “You’ve already stolen my life; I’m not sure what else you can do.”

            “I sold it.”

            “Sorry?”

            Mette inhales again, like enough air could shield her from inside. “I sold the script.”

            I’m not sure I understand exactly, but that’s what questions are for. “You wrote a script and someone paid money for it?”

            “Yes.”

            “Good money?”

            Mette laughs once and shrugs. “No, but it’s better than no money.”

            “So—“ I point in the direction of the stage, through the wall. “Are they going to be performing it here, or—?”

            She snaps her fingers again. Uh oh. “It’s actually—“ Her shoulders raise up past her chin. Almost like a question, Mette says, “Going to be a movie.”

            I stare at her a moment.

            Then I yelp, “Jesus Christ!” I push myself up, using the new beautiful cane like we’ve been together forever, and cross the two meters between us. I wrap my arms around her, swaying her from side to side. “That’s amazing! I’m so happy for you! I’m so proud!”

            This is incredible news! It’s amazing. Mette is so talented. She can do everything. Here at the theater she’s directed and made sets and written plays and sewn costumes and done absolutely every little thing in the few months she’s been here, and now here she is going to make a movie! My heart wants to split open and blossom for her.

            When I pull back, I almost hit her with the cane, and say, “Sorry! Sorry—“

            She’s laughing, her hands up in the air. “It’s okay! It’s fine—sit down—“

            “Oh my God, I can stand up just fine—“ I reach back, grabbing the chair, and drag it forward so that we can sit closer together. I drop down and now we’re nearly knee to knee. “Tell me everything, tell me from start to finish and all the pieces in between. Tell me about it all.”

            “So—you’re not upset with me.”

            Confused, I ask, “Why would I be upset with you?” Mette parts her lips and looks at me expectantly. I think about it. Does she mean—? “Did you think I’d be upset because you’re making a movie and I’ve never done anything with my life?”

            She slaps my knee. “Even! Don’t say that. You’ve done so many things—“

            “But I haven’t made a movie.”

            “You did make a movie, it was a beautiful movie—“

            “It was five minutes long.”

            “It was _beautiful_ —“

            “I am not upset that you get to make a movie. I’m happy for you.” I reach out and touch her cheek. “This is _good news_. I am so happy this is happening for you.”

            And I am. Maybe later, if I think about it, I could get jealous and think about all that I’ve done and not done, but it won’t be like it used to be. I won’t obsess, I won’t be pulled down into the mire by it. It will just be a thing that is and that passes, because that is what life is like right now.

            For the time being.

            Anyways—she deserves this. I don’t begrudge my friends their successes. No one will cheer for her louder and longer than I will.

            Asvald’s voice wants to whisper in my ear, wants to say things about Mette, but I ignore that voice. I’ve gotten quite skilled at ignoring it.

            Mette bites her lower lip a moment, then says, “Why do you have to be like that?”

            “Like what?”

            She takes my hand. “The best of us,” she says quietly.

            I scoff, and I feel my cheeks warm a little. I’m not the best of anything.

            “Tell me everything,” I say, because I want to know it all.

            So she tells me. She tells me about how it went through a friend of a friend, and then another friend, and that friend showed it to Frode Offerdal, whose movie I actually saw in a theater in Stockholm and it was good. Not great, but solidly good, the kind of good first film that means you get to make another. Mette tells me about how they met and spoke and how things went so incredibly well and I hang on every word. I will remember everything. I always remember everything.

            “Producer,” I echo, and she nods. “More good news!”

            Mette shrugs, trying not to look too pleased with herself, but she should be overjoyed, and I know that she is. I think she’s trying to tone it down for me, but she doesn’t need to do that. I am fucking thrilled for her. “I’ve got the experience here, and the short festival every summer. But it’s my first feature. And it’s something I _made up_. Even, it’s—I don’t think I have the words for it.”

            “When do I get to read it?” She cringes, and I give her the barest of shoves. “You have to let me read it! I always let you read whatever I’ve worked on.”

            “I should have let you read it before it sold. I knew I should have, but it when it happened, it was so fast, and I was waiting for you to move back to Oslo so that we could have _this_. Actually sit here with each other and talk about it.”

            Typical Mette. I don’t know how many times she’s rushed in, trying to grab at success, without thinking of the consequences, or just not caring about them at the time. I’ve watched that attitude get her into trouble a few times. This time, though, she’s finally succeeded.

            “Well—now I’m here. And you have to let me read it.”

            “I will.”

            “Try to sound more confident.”

            “I have it for you to read!” Mette laughs. “But…” She claps her hands on her thighs a few times, and looks right into my eyes. “I want to talk to you about something.”

            “You look very serious all of a sudden.” I poke her knee, waiting for whatever the something is.

            “I’ve talked to Frode about this, and—as a producer, and as the writer and everything—but mostly as a producer—I—would really like to bring you on.”

            Um.

            I’m staring at her. I do that sometimes. Stare without realizing when it’s appropriate to stop. I look too hard at people. That’s what people say to me when they’re annoyed with me.

            “Bring me on,” I repeat. “What does that mean?”

            “I mean as a producer.” Mette must see something in my face, because she rushes to say, “Or associate producer, or even just story credit, because I really did take parts of your life and it doesn’t seem fair if your name’s not in the credits. But if you’d like—I would really, really love for you to do this with me, Even.”

            I sit back.

            “Wow,” I finally come up with. “That…is a lot.”

            “I know. I know the last six months—“ She stops, then amends, “The last few years haven’t been great for you. It’s just—I’ve always felt like you could do a million things, only you just need a chance to do it. And now that I have a chance—I’m not going to leave you behind. You’re one of my best friends. This movie is—insane, it makes no sense that all this is happening, but it is, and the only thing that could possibly make it better is if you were doing it with me. I would really love it if you’d do this with me.”

            And I am afraid.

            It’s silly, to be afraid when an opportunity falls directly into your lap. Only I know enough to recognize that there’s no such thing as no strings attached. Whatever this is, it won’t go well. Not in the end. Most things I touch, they…have a tendency to go wrong. And I don’t want to fuck up Mette’s chance. I don’t want to get my own heart broken.

            Except I can’t tell her that. She would dig in her heels and I’d never hear the end of it, but above all, right now she looks so happy. She looks so happy it’s difficult to imagine her any other way, and if I give her a hard no then she’ll be unhappy. That would be my fault.

            “That,” I say carefully, “would be a very big decision.”

            “Frode’s seen your shorts. He absolutely loved _The Boy Who_ —”

            “That’s nice, but a five-minute animation is different from—”

            “Even. You don’t have to answer right now. I know I’m asking for something big. Something that you’re maybe not in a place to give. But if it was you in my place, I know you’d do the same thing. I want you to have this. I want to give this to you.” Mette rolls her eyes, with a lazy shrug. “I’m not giving you much. The money’s negligible. But your name would be in the credits of a real, actual movie. That’s what I can give you.”

            I am twenty-six years old. I am crazy, and a cripple, and I have very few options, even though people like to tell me that I can do anything.

            Finally, I say, “Tell you what. Let me keep this—“ I hold up the cane. “And read the script. And if I like the script, then we’ll talk some more.”

            Her grin might split her face. “Fair.” She sticks out her hand. “Deal.”

            I shake her hand, nodding. “Deal.”

            I hope the script is terrible. I know it won’t be.


	3. Chapter 3

“I’ve got it,” I try to say, but Mom grabs the door from behind my back. I look down at her, unimpressed.

            She is not swayed. She’s my mother, she knows how to deal with my million moods and any expression my face might make. “Go on,” Mom says, balancing the box on her other arm. “Are you going to make me wait forever?”

            My irritation is only a momentary thing. I can’t be annoyed with her—she’s my mother and there is no one in the entire universe who loves me more. And I idolize her. There is a small list of constant things that have kept me alive, fewer than I can count on one hand, and she will always be one. She would probably be the thumb on that hand, the indispensable part.

            I walk inside, setting my hand to the wall as I limp up the stairs, other arm balancing the box against my hip. I left my cane in the apartment because it’s awkward enough walking with a box in your hands. Try doing it with a cane.

            “You couldn’t have gotten something on the main floor?” Mom says again.

            “No. I looked at all the listings and there are actually no flats on the main floor in the entire metropolitan area.”

            “You’re a funny boy. Funny, funny, funny.”

            “Too bad I’m not beautiful,” I reply, “because at least I would know where I got it from.”

            “Impossible,” she mutters, but I can hear the smile in her voice.

            My flat is just off the stairs, the door left open. I make it to the couch, setting the box down beside it. There isn’t anything really important in it. Just the last of the things from my parents’ home. Not even really the last of them. Only the things I think I might need. I’ve left other things in the attic. Mom seemed sad that I was going, even though she wouldn’t say, and I thought it might be good to leave little pieces of myself behind.

            She puts her box down next to mine. Books. She wouldn’t let me carry the heavier box, and I should be annoyed by that, but the way I get upset with people not thinking I can do things is how she gets upset. “What, because I’m fifty, because I’m a woman, I can’t do this?” Mom will say, and God help anyone who tries to argue with her.

            Mom puts her hands on the back of her hips, letting out a sigh. She got her hair cut yesterday, and I like it. Her silver hair is in a pixie cut. Mom will do different things with her hair. Not like me, who’s had the same haircut since I was ten.

            “There we are.”

            I nod. “There we are.”

            My shin is throbbing slightly. The cane, the gorgeous one that Mette has exchanged with me, rests by the door. I don’t go for it, though. Things always hurt the most at the end of the day, but if I don’t have to use it in my own home, I won’t.

            “Do you want some water?” I ask, crossing the little flat to the kitchenette. My movements are a touch jerky. Definitely the end of the day.

            “Mm, I suppose.”

            I take two glasses down from the cupboard, and fill them from the tap. When I turn around, Mom is behind me with the cane. I give her a look and she shrugs, setting it beside me. She takes the glass, and we both lean against the counter.

            I’ve only been in the flat for two weeks. Before that I stayed at the house with Mom for a month. Between the accident and then, I was in Karlstad with my cousin Vedar, but even before all that I’d been thinking of coming back to Oslo. I don’t like that Mom is here alone now.

            But it’s important that I have my own place. I love her, I am in awe of her, but I need some distance. Bad enough she had to worry about me when I was just bipolar. Now there’s the rest for her to worry about. I would prefer to be independent. It would be far too easy to rely on other people to get me through. I can’t keep doing that my entire life.

            She tugs on my sweater. “I like this. It’s too big though.”

            It’s grey and soft and warm. “It’s comfortable.”

            “I might steal it from you.”

            “My own mother, stealing from me.”

            “You want to go down that road?”

            “What road?”

            She points to my bookshelf. “Whose copy of _Homo Falsus_ is that?”

            I pause, then look at her.

            Mom snorts, nodding. “Mhm.” She wraps an arm around herself, sipping from the glass.

            We don’t say anything for a little while. That’s one of the many reasons I love my mother. The best people are the people you can be quiet with. I have a hard time staying quiet with people. I have to be engaging them somehow. Otherwise I get nervous and things have a habit of getting out of control. I can be quiet with my mother, though, and her with me.

            After a minute or two, I ask, “Are you going to be okay?”

            Mom furrows her brows at me, like I’ve asked a ridiculous question. “I’m always okay.”

            “Yeah,” I say deadpan. “Me too.”

            She smiles, and so do I. Mom reaches up and squeezes my chin briefly. She does that sometimes. It’s because I have the same smile that my father did.

            Mom says, “I’ll be fine. I know how to fill the hours.”

            “That actually sounds a bit grim.”

            “It is not. It’s just an expression. I have my life, Even. There’s work, and my friends, and things to read, places to see, a house to clean—“ She bumps into my side. “My handsome son living in the same country as me again. Things are all right.”

            Nodding, I say, “That’s good.”

            Mom sighs through her nose. “The answer to the question you’re not asking is that of course I miss him. Every time I stop, I remember.”

            I nod again. “I know what that’s like.”

            “But I’m okay.” She strokes her hand up and down my arm. “I’m glad you’re here, though. I’m very glad you decided to come home.”

            I wrap my arm around her shoulders and give the top of her head a kiss. I remember the first time I realized that I was tall enough to do that. I was fourteen and it shocked the hell out of me. “I’m glad I’m here too.”

            I am, sometimes. Other times, I wonder what the hell I’m doing. There’s a whole huge world out there, and for some reason I’ve come limping back to Oslo. Really? That’s the best I’ve got?

            Whatever. I’m here now.

            When I let her go, Mom nods down at the cane. “Where on earth did you get that? And where’s the other one?”

            “Traded them. Someone really wanted a boring old man cane, and I wanted one that looked like Gary Oldman’s Dracula might have used it. When he was hot, though. Not when he had the big puffy white hair. Though that might do it for some people.”

            “How much was it?”

            “I told you, I traded it!” Mom’s not buying it, so I shrug, and say, “Mette gave it to me.”

            “Mette,” Mom says. “She’s always been a strange one. I like her, but—well, you know. You should have told me you were seeing her, I would have said to tell her hello.”

            “I told her hello from you anyways. She says hello back.”

            “Did you two ever date? I’ve always wondered.”

            “Mette? No.” I stop, then concede, “We didn’t _date_ , but—“

            Mom holds up her hand. “Say no more.” I chuckle, and Mom elbows me lightly. “Why didn’t you date?”

            “Same reason I never date people I really like. Besides, Mette and I, that was—twice? When I first moved to Stockholm. I wasn’t exactly my best self. I like that we’re just friends. I love her. I want her to be happy.”

            Mom gives me that look I’ve seen more times than I can possibly count. “ _You_ would make someone very happy—“

            “Ah,” I say, shrugging uncomfortably. “She’s well, though. I’m seeing her again next week.”

            I don’t tell Mom more than that. The script is waiting in my inbox. I’m reserving judgment, keeping things close, until I figure out what I want to do. That’s not like me—I tend to jump in head first—but the last half year has made me cautious in ways that I never was before.

            “Tell her hello again.”

            “I will.”

            Mom pops her lips a few times, and I know what the next thing out of her mouth is going to be. This might go badly in a hurry. If I’m honest, that is. I could lie. I could.

            I lie too much, though. It’s always been a problem.

            “How’s Irene?” Mom asks.

            I nod, saying, “Good.”

            I look at the floor, drinking my water. I’m going to need to sit down soon. I know it, and I hate it. I pushed myself too hard today, and I hate thinking things like that. It’s how an adult should think, but it doesn’t feel like the way that _I_ think.

            Mom’s looking at me. I glance at her. That’s all it takes for her to know.

            “Something you want to tell me?”

            It’s been a strange day. And I have to do this eventually. It will be worse if I don’t tell her and she figures it out on her own. Then she’ll think that I haven’t thought about this, that there haven’t been plenty of discussions about it. That it was on a whim.

            It was _not_ on a whim.

            I put the glass on the counter, and rest my hands behind myself on the hard surface. “Um…so, I’m…lowering my lithium dosage.”

            Which could mean I’ve already been doing it, not that I’m preparing for it. I’m sure she’ll assume the latter, even though, well—I lowered the dosage before moving back.

            I watch her reaction. After well over a decade of dealing with _this_ , Mom is not able to be neutral. I know that. I need to be ready for whatever she’s going to say. I know she won’t understand, and I can’t make her. That’s just how it will be.

            It takes a moment, but she puts down her glass and turns to face me. She’s working to keep her voice steady. I can still feel her dismay.

            “How low?”

            “900 mg.”

            Mom taps her fingers on the counter, trying to figure out how to respond. “That’s…that’s low.”

            “It’s only 300 mg less.”

            “Only 300 mg less—“ She stops herself. Pressing her lips together, Mom nods to herself a few times. She looks up at me, with eyes that are reflections of my own, and says, “But that’s as low as you’re going, right?”

            I don’t say anything. I just look back at her.

            Mom starts to shake her head. “No. No, Even—“ She puts her hands to her face.

            “Listen—“

            Dropping her hands, Mom pleads, “Don’t do this—“

            “I’m not going off it right away, I’m tapering off of it—“

            “Why would you do that?”

            Sighing, I turn to her. “Mom—“

            “You’ve had—the last year, fine, it hasn’t been good, but if you hadn’t been on the lithium, how much worse would it have been—“

            “I’m not stopping therapy, I’m still seeing Irene, we’ve talked about this for a few months—“

            “Please, please don’t do this.”

            “Mom—“

            She turns her back, startling me, and heads to the door. “I can’t do this.”

            I stand here, my mouth open. “Mom.”

            “No,” she says, and walks out the door. She doesn’t even close it after herself.

            And it’s not like I can run after her.

 

If my leg can take it, some nights I’ll sit on the window sill to read. It can’t tonight, so I’m propped up in bed with my laptop.

            I’m not sure how to describe what I feel about the script. I mean, I feel many different things about it. It’s well written. It’s Mette’s, so of course it’s well written. The plot isn’t predictable, and I say this as someone who tries to watch a movie every single day. The characterizations are interesting and believable. On its own merits, I would of course love to be involved with this story.

            But the main character—admittedly, reading him feels pretty fucking weird.

            His name is Anders, and he is 23, just out of a psychiatric hospital, and trying to navigate everyday life. He makes friends, he goes back to school, he tries to date. Things fall apart when he goes full manic.

            He tries everything and obsesses about certain people and things. People like him but they don’t understand him. He means well but he doesn’t always see how what he does affects other people. He’s described as always wearing a jean jacket. That made me the most uncomfortable, that memory. I did that for years and years, until after Dad died and I had that ugly episode and I changed a lot of things after that.

            I see enough of myself in the little details, the cadence of his speech, that any deviation is a relief. Mette has written him as straight, and while I will argue to the death about pan erasure, in this case I just need some distance between this fictional self and I. She’s written him as half Algerian, like she is, so I’m glad to see pieces of her in him too.

            When the script ends, with him back in the hospital, it’s not sad, exactly. It’s where he needs to be, given everything that led up to the moment. It’s the promise of him getting the help he’s avoided before.

            So it’s a weird thing to read my shadow self submitting to psychiatric care when I’m trying to get off lithium.

            Nothing about this isn’t weird. I need a break.

            I minimize the file, so I can just see the wallpaper on my desktop. It’s a poster I found online for _Sunrise_. Bundles of reeds.

            Blowing out a breath, I drop my arms on top of my head. I guess now is when I should think about how bizarre it is that there are pieces of me going to be in a movie. Maybe I’m just conceited, but it doesn’t seem impossible.

            Definitely conceited.

            Mette should have spoken to me before selling it. There are things in there that I would have preferred not to be. Things that are private, that I thought would be kept between us.

            Except it’s her vision. I’m not going to fuck with her vision. The man in the script, he’s not me. Whoever brings him to life will make someone new. Mette just asked me questions and I answered them and she thought of me when she thought of what a character might do.

            I don’t know that I want to be involved in this. It would be bizarre.

            I’ve always wanted to be part of the movies, though. I thought I’d make my own. That was the plan. I have scripts lying around, and I’ve made lots of shorts over the years, but every time things start to settle, they come apart again. That’s what my life is like. That’s what it will always be like.

            My ideas for movies are always too out there. I mean, when I had ideas. Lithium sort of beats the shit out of the ideas even approaching shore. When I had ideas, they were always big, and weird, and people would look at me sideways and laugh. Not the kind of thing that anyone would give me money to make. Not the kind of thing people would fill a theater to see.

            But a slice of life about a biracial, bipolar guy just going about things in Norway—it’s serious enough that people would finance that. Serious enough that people would check it out.

            I don’t know how many chances I’m going to get. They’ve come along before, but I always fuck them up. I do something wrong, or I have an episode, or something completely unrelated happens. Things always fall through.

            This is the best chance that’s come along in a long time. My friend has had something incredibly fortunate happen to her, and because she’s lovely, she wants to bring me along with her. That’s really something. I love Mette for that. Of course I do.

            Except—Jesus _Christ_ , talk about awkward.

            Do I even have it in me?

            I’m as level as I’ll probably be for the foreseeable future. The less I’m medicated, the less level I’ll be. Right now, I can take a lot of things and just shrug them off. Not like the confidence I get when I’m hypomanic or manic. I can take a difficult thing on and deal with it and move on. But without the lithium, if something bad happens, I’ll fixate on it. I’ll be too aggressive or I’ll falter or I’ll do something that I can’t even predict.

            Which anyone else would take as a gigantic flashing sign that they should be medicated forever. Only…

            I feel like the story’s stopped. The story’s stopped, and I’m still here. That’s what life is like right now.

            So if that’s the case, I should do this thing. I should push myself. I can’t be so fucking afraid all the time. If that’s what it is. I can’t even tell what I feel anymore. My feelings are small, smothered things, and I hate that.

            I’m exhausted. That’s the lithium too. It makes me tired. That and I’m thirsty constantly, which means I get up a few times in the night to piss, which doesn’t help with being tired.

            I’ll have to think about this tomorrow. I don’t just jump to decisions like I used to. Part of me misses that. I don’t know if that was the mania or just being younger or a mix of the two.

            I feel weird. Unsettled.

            I try not to listen to the song too much—I only listen to it when it’s been a hard day. Today wasn’t hard. Not really. Mom was kind of tough, but I knew she wouldn’t be happy. Still, I feel drained, and I need it.

            So I shut the laptop, and turn off the light. I find my iPod in the dark, sticking the buds in my ear. Shuffling down, I wince at the pain in my left calf. It’s gone from a throb to an ache, and I never realized a single body part could experience so many different categories of pain until this last half year.

            Flipping to my most-listened-to playlist, I pick the number one song. It’s the song I wrote for the short. Just me on the guitar. I’ve got it on a loop so it plays for three hours straight. C minor.

            I look at the little screen for a moment, moving it up and down. Like I said, it’s only for the really bad days. Like when Dad died or Asvald died or the times when I can’t get out of bed.

            Then there’s the days like this, where I don’t know why I need it. Only that I do.

            I’m not Freyja. I don’t cry for my lost love, and I don’t search for him. For Christ’s sake, I wouldn’t have come back to Oslo if he was here. He’s in Denmark, last I heard. A good safe distance between us.

            Nonetheless, like the strange thing that I am, I listen to Isak’s song until I fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Need to find me? Usually around at e-sebastian.tumblr.com.


	4. Narcissus and Echo and Ameinias and Echo

_Narcissus was the son of a river god and a nymph, but no one remembers that. People remember him because his name became a word, because he embodied a thing so thoroughly that it’s what he’d be known for eternally._

_Narcissus was beautiful. He was whatever you might think is beautiful. He was lithe and pale and had yellow curly hair. He was brown skinned and thick around the middle and had warm eyes. He was average height and average weight and his hair was that shade that’s somewhere between brown and blond that ends up looking a bit grey. Picture beautiful, whatever that is to you, and that was Narcissus to every person who saw him._

_People loved Narcissus. But they didn’t love Narcissus. They loved that he was beautiful. This is not the same as loving a person. This is loving a thing. This is delusion._

_Narcissus was delusional too. He thought he was loved and deserving of love. He was not deserving of love. He had nothing of worth except for his face, his form, and that is not enough to fill even a teaspoon. Narcissus thought his beauty made him better than others. No one discouraged that. In fact, they encouraged it, which was a damned foolish thing to do._

_And when a person thinks they are better than others, they are invariably cruel. There is no triumph in superiority. The second you believe it, you have failed._

_When people told Narcissus they loved him, he was terrible to them. He was so much more beautiful than they were, so how could they deserve him? I have no sympathy for Narcissus, and I want to take the people who were lured in by his beauty and shake them. It’s not real, I want to tell them. He is lesser, why don’t you see that?_

_But people loved how he looked and so they told him that they loved him and because the word ‘love’ was used, it’s automatically a sad story._

_Echo loved Narcissus._

_Ameinias loved Narcissus._

_Echo followed Narcissus everywhere he went, but Echo was cursed. She could only repeat the last words someone said to her. She could not tell Narcissus how she felt. When she revealed herself to Narcissus, he pushed her away. She wasn’t enough. No one would ever be enough. And so Echo wandered, her heart broken, spirit broken, all for beauty, and when Nemesis heard this story, she sought to punish Narcissus for his cruelty. She lured him to a pool, where he saw his own image, and at last he saw someone who was so beautiful that he could love them, and he_ loved _, or what he thought was love. As much as he could understand love. When he realized that it was only a reflection, he killed himself for grief, knowing there would never be anyone as beautiful as he, someone who he could love._

 _Ameinias followed Narcissus everywhere, entranced by his beauty. When he revealed his feelings to Narcissus, the beautiful man scoffed. He gave Ameinias a sword and told him to use it on himself. That’s the kind of man Narcissus really was. The kind of man who gives a delusional person a weapon and tells them to die. So Ameinias did, and his last thought was a prayer to the gods that Narcissus would feel the depth of his pain. Soon after, Narcissus walked past a pool, where he saw his own image, and at last he saw someone who was so beautiful that he could love them, and he_ loved _, or what he thought was love. As much as he could understand love. When he realized that it was only a reflection, he killed himself for grief, knowing there would never be anyone as beautiful as he, someone who he could love._

_Echo followed Narcissus everywhere he went, but Echo was cursed. She could only repeat the last words someone said to her. She could not tell Narcissus how she felt. One day, Narcissus was walking through the woods, and he saw his own reflection in a pool. He was so taken with the beauty of the figure before him that he said, “You’re beautiful.” And Echo said, “You’re beautiful.” Believing that this gorgeous creature was speaking to him, Narcissus sat down at the side of the pool, and he did not get up again. He gazed at his reflection, telling it how lovely it was, and his reflection echoed his words. He did not eat, he did not drink. He sat there until he withered and died, too taken with himself to move. And Echo remained with him until she was not even a body anymore, only a voice._

_It doesn’t matter how many times the story is told or the voice who tells it. The story repeats itself, because that’s what stories do._


	5. Chapter 5

“Even.”

            I lift my eyes. Damn it. Drifted off for a moment there. I smile and say, “Sorry.”

            Irene looks at me a few seconds, then says, “Most people who have a script written about them, where they’re the main inspiration, would probably be pretty focused on that. Why do I get the feeling that you’re not?”

            “I am.”

            She doesn’t believe me.

            “I _am_ ,” I insist.

            I’m sitting at my small kitchen table, which can seat two people and no more. Irene is sitting in her office back in Stockholm. I can see the little dragon I bought her last Christmas sitting on the bookshelf behind her.

            It’s the middle of the day, sun coming in strong. I am not wearing pants, because one of the advantages of my therapist being in another country is not having to wear pants when she counsels me.

            “I can’t make you tell me things,” Irene says gently.

            Uncomfortable, I shrug. Her eyes follow me, and not even being a country apart is enough to take that weight off.

            “What do you think I should do about the movie?” I ask.

            “That’s not how this works.”

            “You’re a neutral party. It’s why I come to you. What do you think?”

            “I can’t think or feel for you, Even. That’s not why I’m here.”

            “Right, but if it was you…”

            She just smiles, and shakes her head.

            I let out a long, put upon sigh. “What do I think and feel about the movie, okay. I think it is wonderful, and I am very happy for Mette. I feel conflicted, because she took things from my life that I’m not very proud of. I want to participate because it’s a movie, and there is no one who loves movies more than I do, probably in the entire world, or at the very least Norway, and making movies has been my dream for as long as I can remember. I think it would be fucking _weird_ , for the obvious reasons.”

            “It probably would be weird. But wouldn’t it be interesting too? Seeing how things look from an outside party?”

            “You think I should do it.”

            “That’s not what I said.”

            “Yes it is. I know how you say things. Why do you think I should do it?”

            “I think there are pros and cons. I think that it would be good for you, for the reasons you’ve mentioned. It’s your dream, it’s a thing you’ve always been passionate about. I think it would be a way for you to confront things about your illness that you’d rather avoid.” Irene lifts her hands, leaning back in her chair. “I think that it could also possibly trigger some things for you, and you tend to try and suppress the negative until it explodes. I’m not a fan of explosions, particularly when they happen in humans.”

            I prop my head up, smiling. “What about movie explosions? Do you like those? What’s your favourite? Mine might be—“

            “Even, I know what you’re doing. Come back now.”

            Scratching my eyebrow, I give a quick shrug and say, “Hey, you’re the one who said it was all right for me to be passionate about—“ I look at her expression and crack up a little. “I’m here. I’m here.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “More or less.”

            “If you’re not here, where are you?”

            I should have a quote. There’s a quote from the movies for everything, no matter the situation. Instead, I find myself tapping my fingertips on the table top.

            She’s said my name. “Sorry,” I frown. “I’m here.”

            “Tell me where you are.”

            I wrap my knuckles on the table a few times. Then I sit back, ruffling my hair. “It’s, uh…six months today.”

            Irene’s eyes clear.

            Before she can get into it, I say, “I don’t want to really talk about it. I know it’s a thing we’re supposed to talk about, but I—I think I’d rather just work through this one on my own. If that’s okay?”

            “That’s okay. It’s your show. But can you tell me how you’re really feeling about it today?”

            I have to take a moment, and I can’t look at her. I scratch my thumbnail along the edge of the table, and look down at my leg. I’ve got it stretched out, the way I always do now when I sit. The scar isn’t that long. About five centimeters, just to the left of center on my shin.

            “I miss my friend,” is what I say. I nod, chewing on my lip. “That’s how I feel about it.”

            I don’t look up when Irene asks, “Last week, you said you’d see if anyone you knew was—“

            With a jut of the chin, I wrap my arms around myself and manage to look at her. Straight on. “Yeah, I texted Sonja, actually. She said I was welcome to visit.”

            “Is she in the city?”

            “No, she and her husband live in Trondheim.”

            Irene raises her brows. “And anyone in the city?”

            “Ah,” I say, indifferent. “I saw Mette. Considering what she had for me, that feels like more than enough.”

            Irene studies me. She knows me well enough to know when I’m not moving and when I will. “To be continued,” she promises.

            I make a face. “Same Bat time, same Bat channel,” I murmur in English. I roll my eyes at her expression. “Yes, I’m deflecting using pop culture references. Yes, I’m aware I do that too much.”

            “You seem uncomfortable today.”

            “It’s different than when I’m manic. Then I can just talk and talk and talk. Right now, though…I’m sick of the sound of my own voice. Doing this every week feels—I don’t know, fucking narcissistic.”

            “Even,” Irene says in exasperation. “It’s not narcissistic to look after yourself—“

            “I know, I know. I said it feels that way.”          

            “How do things feel? Have you noticed any differences yet?”

            “No. Still feels the same.”

            “That’s not necessarily a bad thing. And it takes awhile for your body to adjust to the lower dosage.” I’m still chewing on my mouth, and Irene says, “We’ve talked about this, Even. Lowering the dosage isn’t the solution to all your problems.”

            “Is there a solution to all my problems? Have you been hiding that from me?” She doesn’t dignify that with a response. I didn’t expect her to. I thread my fingers through my hair a few times, then I say, “Speaking of narcissism—“

            “Even.”

            “No, I’m going somewhere with this. Back to the movie. I keep thinking about Narcissus and Echo. You know that story?”

            “Oh, I had my Greek myth phase when I was a teenager. There’s a lot of versions of that story.”

            “Two words came from that story, you know, and so it’s easy to think that it’s two different ideas, but narcissism is just an echo, isn’t it? An echo of self? And I find myself—thinking that it would be narcissistic to be involved with the movie. There’s that ego boost of, oh, I’m so cool that someone took parts of my life and made it into a movie—even though he ends up in a psychiatric hospital, which isn’t exactly cool, but you know what I mean. And by the time this whole project really gets going, I’ll be on less lithium or no lithium, and maybe I won’t be—able to distinguish…fuck, I don’t know what I’m saying, Irene, I’m just rambling.”

            “Rambling is fine. Rambling says more than you think.”

            I try to put it into words. That’s one of the things that drives me fucking insane about lithium. It takes away the ideas, and it takes away _words_. “A lot of what I’ve written or drawn, it’s pieces of my life. I worry about being too self absorbed. It’s not healthy. I do it the worst when I’m sick, and I know that—we’ve talked about it, maybe things don’t go well, maybe I’ll have an episode and things will go wrong, and maybe in the middle of that I’ll be watching people pretend things that have happened from my life, and that seems—precarious? I don’t want to be trapped by my own reflection.”

            Irene thinks for a moment. I like that she does that. I like that she doesn’t always have the answers right at her fingertips, that she has to search for the right response.

            “Think of it like this,” she says. “It’s not _the_ reflection. Mette made something that was inspired by you, but it isn’t you. Think of things as—dozens of mirrors. This is just one of those mirrors. And yes, there will be some truth there. But it’s not the only truth. It’s not your exact reflection. Looking at ourselves, seeing these truths about ourselves, that’s not narcissism, or egotism. It’s understanding. It’s acceptance. There’s no singular truth about a human being, but many, many truths, and so long as you remember that, I think it would be a very interesting thing for you to explore. Whether it be participating directly in the making of this movie, or in some other way.”

            After a moment, I smile wildly. “So that’s why you have that fancy office.”

            “This?” Irene says, motioning around her. “I don’t know whose it is actually. It’s always empty between 12 and 1, so I sneak in here.”  She looks at me expectantly. “Something to think about?”

            I nod, and agree, “Something to think about.”


	6. Chapter 6

It’s chilly, so there’s not many people around. That and it’s a strange time of day to come to the sculpture park. I’m not sure what brought me out here. I just started walking, then got on a tram, and kept walking some more. Now I’m out here, on the water, sun starting to cradle on the horizon.

            I watch some tourists take a picture of _Eyes_. Eyes. Right. That’s what we all think they are. The tourists sniggering as they look at their phone tells me that we’re on the same page.

            I lean on the cane as I walk towards the water. I shouldn’t sit down. It’s going to be hard to get up again. But I don’t think I can stay on my feet much longer.

            Every day, I try to walk for at least an hour. Not an hour straight. I can make it maybe a half hour before taking a break, then walking back to the flat. Mom didn’t believe me that I didn’t need a physiotherapist when I moved back here. After all, she’s my mother, and after 26 years she can recognize when I’m lying. It made her feel better to see me go for walks, though, and that I wasn’t pushing myself too hard.

            The thing is, I do push myself too hard. I have enough to deal with. Limping for the rest of my life is not going to be one of those things.

            Sometimes I remember that time I actually made Isak think Sonja had a prosthetic foot. He didn’t know me then, didn’t know that I lied so much, and he believed me. It seemed funny then. In the hospital, after the accident, I remembered that the first time I was left alone, and it didn’t seem funny at all.

            Okay, time to sit. It snowed last week, but it melted as soon as it fell. The ground is cold and the grass feels brittle, and I drop on my ass a little harder than I intended. I lay the cane down beside me, like it’s a companion, then lean back on my hands.

            It is beautiful here. I’ve never lived anywhere ugly, per se—Stockholm is nice enough, and even Karlstad isn’t terrible—but this is where I was born, and so it has a kind of magic. These are the hills and streets and even the water I know. I know this exact shade of blue-grey that is only here, only at this time of year, if I look out onto the fjord. I know how the air tastes, how it feels on my skin. Maybe it’s a disappointment to me, that I’ve retreated to where I started, but it’s good too. To be where things are written on my bones.

            Six months.

            I wonder what he’d say. I can imagine it, actually. He’d be infuriated. That Mette made her main character bipolar. Asvald always hated Mette anyways. I never liked that about him, even as close as we were. He hated anyone who wasn’t like us, and I didn’t realize that until things went as far as they did.

            We ended up on a beach one time. I have no idea the name or even exactly where it was. Sometimes we would just get in a car and drive. Depending on how far we went, sometimes we’d come back to the city. Other times we’d sleep in the vehicle or outside. I learned to bring a sleeping bag on those trips.

            The water was clear enough there that when I put my hand into the lake I couldn’t see where the surface was, only feel it. “It’s beautiful here.”

            “It’s not bad.”

            I turned to him, mouth agape. “Was that _almost_ a compliment?”

            He shoved me and I ended up with water in my boots.

            Six months. I don’t even know how that happened.

            This is a decision I have to make on my own. My whole life, I’ve struggled with letting other people make my decisions. People who don’t really know me, they think I’m independent, that I’m confident and sure, but a lot of the time, when I’m able to think clearly, I’m scared shitless. I’d do what my parents wanted, then Sonja, then Isak, and then I was just sort of a disaster for awhile.

            It’s fucked up, but when I’m sick, it’s like the only time I make decisions that are solely my own. Except I’m not sick right now. I might be in a few months, because I choose to be—because even medicated, apparently I’m a crazy person—but in this moment it’s up to me to decide.

            Jesus, what else am I doing? The disability keeps me afloat, but I don’t care for that. The last few years, it’s what I’ve lived on, because I’ve been too up and down to keep a steady job. I’ve written a lot, and made my little movies, and composed songs, and drawn comics, and that’s fine, but is that what I want to do forever?

            It’s not. I know it’s not.

            Part of me wishes I had someone to talk about this with. Of course there’s Irene. That’s literally what she’s there for. But I’ve always had a near impossible time talking about important things with people. Even the people I’m most intimate with, it’s like trying to crack open a wall inside myself to tell the unvarnished truth.

            The only person I was ever able to really do that with was Isak, and even then it was like pulling teeth. It’s so much easier to communicate with people through lyrics and lines from movies. Other people have said what I want to say so much better. With him, though, I could sometimes find it in myself to actually say what I didn’t want to, but needed to.

            But that’s long passed. I’ve been thinking about him more just because I’m back in the city again. It’s been four years since I’ve seen him, talked to him. I don’t talk to people who know him.

            I wriggle my toes inside my boots. My leg is sore, but it’s not unbearable. I’m getting stronger, every day. I must remember that. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that I’m a strong person.

            Oh, fuck it. What else am I doing with my life?

            I pull out my phone. Before I can change my mind, I text Mette.

            ‘Can I meet Offerdal? If he’s hot, I’ll put more consideration into this.’  

            I press send. I regret it, but that’s just what I’m like now. Not for long. I must keep that in mind.

            It’s okay to look at the parts of myself I don’t like. It’s okay if other people see those parts. It’s not the end of the world. I’ve survived the end of the world a few times now. At this point, it will take a hell of a lot more than public disdain to stop me.

            I tell myself that, but who knows if I believe it. I drop on my back and watch the clouds laze their way across the sky.


	7. Francesca da Rimini and Paolo Malatesta

_The second circle of hell is for the lustful. The second circle is nothing but a whirlwind, a whirlwind that never ceases. It’s hot like breath on the back of the neck, and nothing is stable, ever spinning, turning people about like the passions they’ve given themselves up to._

_This is where Dante found Francesca and Paolo in his tour of hell._

_Francesca was married to Giovanni Malatesta for political reasons. He was rich, her family was rich, but they hated one another, killed one another, and apparently the only way to seal that rift was with the thread of a young woman’s body. So Francesca was given to Giovanni with little more thought than one would give to gifting cattle or land._

_Giovanni was a villain. He was old and unattractive. He had fought in battles, and people used words like bravery, but they said it from fear. There are men who fight because they must, and men who fight for the joy of it, and Giovanni was not the former. He was an ogre. He was unkind. And we know he was evil because he was crippled. That’s how stories tell you someone is terrible. If a person’s body is broken, their soul must be as well._

_So here was Francesca, stuck with this evil, murderous cripple, but what did she find? His brother. Paolo was handsome, and his body was whole, and he was kind. He was married, sure, but when has that stopped anyone?_

_Francesca tried to resist him, and Paolo tried to resist her, but some things are not to be resisted. When they gave into their passions, it was with the force of a gale._

_And it happened again. And again._

_And again._

_It happened for ten years, and people are not stupid. Giovanni was not stupid. He knew what his brother was doing, what his wife was doing, but he could not harm her for concern of reigniting tensions with her family. For ten years, though, he had to stand in the shadows as his beautiful wife and his able-bodied brother fucked one another’s brains out on every surface of the palace, thinking they were being so secretive and sly._

_When he killed them, there was nothing all that different about the occasion. Francesca was in her rooms, where Paolo had gone many, many times. Giovanni had lived with their betrayal for days and months and years, and for whatever reason, he chose that moment to act. Maybe he didn’t even know why the decision was made. There aren’t always answers to the question of, ‘Why now?’_

_The frenzy with which he murdered them was not so far from the frenzy their passion had locked them in, and for the two lovers it seemed like one long extension of mania. Two bodies, desperate for one another. Two bodies, torn open, whirling, grasping for life, more life, amidst cries of rage and longing. Two souls, awakened in another realm, together for eternity in the furious winds of the underworld._

_No one says any more about Giovanni, because he had done his part as the monster by placing Francesca and Paolo in the pantheon of famous lovers._

_I wonder, though, that no one ever said the name of Paolo’s wife_.


	8. Chapter 8

I thought I could be prepared for everything, but that was hubris.

            I dressed as carefully as I could, black jeans that fit close and my blue sweater that makes my eyes look uncanny, and the olive-green pea coat that I just bought, because the weather is turning. I shaved, which I don’t have to do that frequently, and managed to not cut myself. If someone asked how long I spent on my hair, I’d tell them the true answer like it was a joke, but Jesus did I fuss it with for an unreasonable length of time today.

            I’ve researched Frode Offerdal as much as I can without being creepy. I rewatched his movie, read all that I could find online. I’ve asked Mette what he’s like, and managed to make it seem like I wasn’t interrogating her when I really was.

            In my bag, I have the condensed version of my portfolio. Some of the comics, some of the stories that I’ve published, links to songs I’ve written and shorts I’ve made. I’ve worried over it the last few days. Last night, when it came up to midnight and I still couldn’t let it go, I made myself go through the list Irene and I wrote for if I should stop doing something.

            Is this healthy? Is this obsessing? Will the world end if I either stop or come back to it later? The answers were yes, yes, and no, so I shoved the book into my bag and I haven’t looked at it since.

            I’ve spoken with my mother, and she’s cheered me on. It’s nice to have her on my side after how frustrated she is about my medication. Mette can’t quite tell how nervous I am, but she gave me a hug and told me how happy she was that I wanted to be a part of this. That was good.

            So realistically, I should be prepared.

            But then I follow Mette to the café, and the closer we get, the more my stomach knots, and when I realize where we are, it becomes a whole other version of _what the fuck, don’t do this to me_. I come to a stop, looking at the sign over the café.

            Mette’s got her hand on the door when she realizes I’m not with her. She looks back for me, and laughs once. “You okay?”

            I blink, snapping out of it. Only there’s this weight of dread trying to drag my heart down into my guts. “Yeah, no—I used to come here years ago. It used to be a bar.” I shake my head, following her. “That’s the problem with coming back here. Memories.”

            “Tell me about it,” Mette says. “And I was gone longer than you, so it’s weird as hell.”   

            Not this place. Jesus, anywhere but _here_ , of all places.

            Maybe it’s good that this is weird. When Mette introduces me to Frode, I have the added cognitive dissonance of being in a place that’s shaped like somewhere I once knew, but it’s different colours and the tables are round instead of square and I’m distracted by the fact that I may have briefly wandered into an alternate universe.

            We sit down. He is handsome, with rich brown hair and carefully trimmed beard and glasses that are just clunky enough to be an affectation. As someone who has performed his share of those over the years, I can spot them a kilometre away.

            He gets out in front of me by saying, “I’m glad to meet you. I have to be honest, I spent last night stalking you online a little.”

            I pause, halfway through setting down my bag. “Uh oh.”

            Frode grins. He has one tooth at the front that’s chipped, and I want to hear the story of how it happened. “Mette, I mean—she told me you were interested in a lot of things, and the last while here, I’ve been pretty busy, so I wasn’t able to really check you out, but last night, I said to myself, you better get on this. So—yeah, you are into a _lot_ of things.”

            I resist the urge to hold onto my cane. I let it rest against the table. “I have a lot of interests,” and Lord, that was a lame thing to say. Get it together, Even.

            “Loved the short you did. Mette showed it to me when she told me about you, but I watched it again last night. You did it all yourself, right? All the animation, the score, everything. The drawing by hand.”

            “I did.”

            Crossing his arms, Frode asks in curiosity, “How long did that take you?”

            “About three months.”

            Brows raising, Frode looks between the two of us. “Three months. You did all that in three months.”

            I raise my shoulders, going out on a limb, and say, “It helped that I was manic at the time.”

            There’s a pause, then he starts laughing.

            I don’t joke about being bipolar much. Maybe sometimes with people that I care about, but with a stranger—that’s another matter. But this man is going to be making a movie about a bipolar man, so if I can’t joke about it with him, he’s probably not good people.

            I turn things away from myself by saying, “I actually saw _Little Wings_ when it came out in theaters.”

            “You mean one of the three theaters that showed it?”

            But that gets us away from me, thank God, and I listen and laugh as he tells a story about Harald Alfssen, the lead actor, getting drunk at a festival and punching an usher. It shouldn’t be funny, but the way Frode tells it makes it so.

            At the edges, though, I am very nervous. A chance. A chance to finally do something that I’ve wanted to be part of for as long as I can remember. When I was eight, my parents bought me a camcorder so I could make my own movies. And I did. There are hours and hours of my life devoted to painstakingly moving dolls frame by frame for a minute worth of screen time. I hounded friends to act in my movies, and forced anyone who came into the house to sit down to watch what I’d made.

            Even when I’m at my worst, movies are a thing that I have. Stories are a thing that I have. I was supposed to have done something by now. People expected me to have done something by now. I can do this.

            I can absolutely do this.

            Regardless of where we’re fucking sitting.

 

It’s at least a half hour and one cappuccino before we get back to me. That’s fine. I like hearing other people’s stories, and _of course_ I want to hear Frode’s stories about moviemaking.

            But when he turns his cheerful gaze on me and says, “So! Even! Tell me the story of your life,” I dread it, but I’m prepared, in some small way.

            “It’s not very interesting,” I reply. Mette scoffs, and I cast her a look.

            “I’m guessing that’s not the truth, but try me.”

            I lift my shoulders, inhaling a breath through my teeth. “Born and raised here. Always obsessed with movies, for as long as I can remember.”

            “What’s the first movie you can remember?”

            “ _Pretty Woman_ ,” I say without shame, and we all laugh, but I don’t mind. “I might have developed a lifelong crush on Julia Roberts as a result.”

            “Who wouldn’t? Those legs.”

            “As for the story of my life, well—I went to the National Academy for the Arts for about two years, but I had a bad break up, and I ended up leaving here for Stockholm. Didn’t go back to school, just because—“ I shrug. I know his biography. He dropped out of school too.

            Frode nods. “It’s easier to teach yourself these things sometimes.”

            “Exactly. And Stockholm, that’s where I met Mette—“ I nudge her foot under the table, and she nudges back. “And for the last few years, I’ve just been working on anything I can. I haven’t exactly had the chance to work on any big projects, so I’ve done my own thing. My father died last year, and I had this—“ I gesture to the cane. “Car accident earlier in the year that was pretty terrible, so I was ready to come back here. My mother’s here, and I’d kind of lost my taste for Sweden. And that is basically the very boring story of my life.”

            “I think you’re leaving all the good parts out.”

            “I don’t know you yet. I tell you the good parts, it might come back to haunt me.”

            He laughs again, and I like that he laughs. I like that the man making this movie isn’t some brooding introvert. He won’t make things overly serious. I bet he’ll find the humour in the absurd. That’s good. When it comes to bipolar, sometimes it’s better to laugh.

            Frode beats out a short rhythm on the table. “So if you’re up for it, and you don’t mind sharing some stories, I’d love to sit down with you probably a few times. If you wouldn’t mind talking to the cast too, once we have them in place. Not quite there yet, of course. Financing with this Lithuanian bastard is kind of tricky, and I’m not exactly on the good side of the National Film Institute, so who knows where the money’s coming from.”

            My brows are furrowed. Did I miss something? “Sorry—sit down for what?”

            Frode smiles a little, looking between us. “Mette said you’d be interested in answering some questions. Acting as our—consultant? Is that the word we want to use?”

            I gaze at him a moment. Then I look at Mette.

            She’s staring at Frode. She glances at me for a second, then rests her hands on the table. “Frode—I said I wanted him to be a part of the film.”

            “Yeah. You said he’d be there to answer questions, to—“ He narrows his eyes. Shaking his head, he leans forward. “What are _you_ talking about?”

            “Frode, I said I wanted him to be a part of the film—not a consultant, that’s not what—we talked about this, I asked if he could be a producer—“

            Frode yelps, “What?” He looks completely taken aback. “Mette—we talked about that when we were drunk. The only time we talked about this sober, you said he’d answer questions for us like he did for you. There wasn’t any sort of—“ He looks at me, mouth open. “Listen—Mette, I get that—we didn’t talk about this—“

            “We _did_ —“

            “We did not, and the other producers would not go for it. What do you think Grete would say? I know what Grete would say, I’ve worked with her for four years. She got away with firing a grip because he had cancer, she’s sure as hell not going to let—“ He stops, pushing a hand through his hair.

            Mette leans across the table, lowering her voice the way she does when she gets angry. “Are you kidding? Are you fucking kidding me right now? It’s a story about a man with bipolar, and you’re telling me that Christ forbid we have someone work on the movie who’s actually bipolar—“

            “I’m—“

            “That’s what you’re telling me—“

            I reach out, putting my hand on the table, and they both go quiet.

            My heart is pounding in my ears. I don’t know if I’m bright red or not, but I feel like I probably should be. I feel like I might throw up.

            With a small smile, I say, “There has apparently been a misunderstanding here. That’s—fine. Mr. Offerdal, it was very nice to meet you, but I will have to decline the offer to be a consultant. No hard feelings about any of this. I’m very happy that Mette’s story is going to be in such capable hands.” I push back from the table. “If you’ll both excuse me, I think it’s time that I left.”

            They’re both speaking, telling me not to go, but I’m not listening. I pick my bag off the floor, lifting the strap over my head, then get to my feet. I push the chair towards the table, and then I head towards the door, leaning on the cane.

            I’ve almost escaped when Mette tugs me to a stop, and I immediately pull my arm away from her touch. She looks up at me with wide eyes. “Even—I will fix this, I didn’t realize—“

            I put up a hand, silencing her. I keep my voice level, but there’s no way not to realize that I am on the edge. “You need to stay away from me.”

            I open the door and slip through it.

            I manage to get about two blocks away before I know for sure that no one is coming after me. Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, I press my lips together and shake my head.

            “ _Fuck_ ,” I hiss.


	9. Chapter 9

I should have walked away the second I saw that it was where the bar used to be. It was minutes away from where our flat used to be, and they’d let Isak and his friends—our friends—in even when they were eighteen.

            And of course I blame Mette—always rushing ahead, not asking first, making me the butt of a horrible, horrible joke—but it’s my fault that I walked into that place.

            I’m not religious. I don’t believe in higher powers or anything like that. But there’s no disputing that there is something at play that can’t just be coincidence. There does seem to be a design at play in life. Too much has happened for me to just be able to say that it’s all random.

            Being fucking humiliated in the place that used to be The Cay is more than enough evidence of that. It makes sense, though. I had so many happy memories and high hopes in that place, with the last one just being the literal worst.

            So yes, obviously I would walk into that building, hoping for the best, with my ridiculous little portfolio in my bag—which I threw in the water while I angry-walked—only to have that pulled out from under me. That’s how the universe is made.

            I should have known. I should have trusted myself, what I know. I should have realized where we were going and walked away. It was a yellow curtains situation. That’s what I call it when there’s some memory of how things used to be, but that’s not the version that exists, not now, maybe not even ever. I keep coming up against these types of things all over Oslo, but none quite like this.

            That was the bar we went to for almost every celebration, when we just wanted it to be friends. We’d take the tables at the back, and depending on how many drinks we’d had, Isak would press against my side and I would sling an arm over his shoulders. It’s where we went after he graduated. Everybody was so happy, I could just feel this rush inside, and like almost every day I was overwhelmed by how much I adored him. We’d been together a year and a half, and I had only just learned to stop worrying that he’d realize his mistake in picking me.

            It was earlier than usual when he pushed his way under my arm, which I didn’t mind. I was always eager for public displays of affection; he’s the one who would hold back. Probably like a normal person, but Christ, I’ve never had much of a handle on normal. I realized after awhile that he was being quieter than usual. He would do that sometimes—go quiet in a crowd, and just watch people.

            I murmured in his ear, “Okay?”

            He nodded, and I had to reach up to push his curls back, enough so I could pin them in place with my chin. Otherwise they would tickle my cheek, and my usual revenge was to tickle him. I didn’t want to embarrass him in front of his friends, though, which was a line I still wasn’t entirely sure how to navigate, even though he’d reassured me that I never had.

            I petted his hair a little, removed from the noise surrounding us. With a snap of the fingers, we could create our own little world. It was just him and I and no one else, and I think everyone who is young and in love feels that way. I’ve even asked people if it was like that for them the first time they really fell in love, and they say yes. So I know we weren’t unique, no matter what it might have felt like.

            “I’m so proud of you,” I said quietly, and I was. He had done well in school. I had barely scraped through, a hair’s breadth away from not qualifying for university. Isak was my brilliant boy, and there were marks on a paper to show how smart he was. I didn’t need it to know he was clever, but if it made other people appreciate him, all the better.

            He tilted his head back to look at me. There was a funny little smile on his mouth. We made one another smile almost constantly, but this was a new expression on his face.

            When he kissed me, I forgot about all that. It wasn’t like the short kisses he’d give me in public, or when other people were around. It was like the kisses we’d share on a lazy Sunday afternoon, sprawled across our bed, content to do nothing more than touch one another. I didn’t think I could be happier than I was in that moment, with Isak tucked up under my arm, gently stroking the underside of his chin, tasting his tongue and giving him mine, tracing the gaps between his teeth. This was what true happiness was. It wasn’t the crush of mania, the highest highs that sickness brings. It was intimate and small and _ours_ and so fucking perfect and real.

            And when his friends started cat calling us, Isak broke away from me, laughing and blushing, but he slipped his hand to the inside of my thigh and kept it there for the rest of the evening, drinking steadily with his other hand. When I held him up on the way home, he said, “You’re going to have to marry me one of these days,” and I laughed and said of course I would.

            That’s what that bar was to me. Memories of being a person, an actual person who did things like go to school and have a boyfriend and plans. Then it’s the bar I know Isak went to on the last day we were together. It’s the bar where I looked in on him and realized that he meant what he said, and that it didn’t matter to him if I was gone.

            Places, stories, they echo. There’s no such thing as an original composition; we live in a world of remixes. That place was destined to hurt me, and did. I was stupid enough to go back, so it hurt me all over again.

            My own fucking fault. That’s what this is.

 

I went to Mom first so that I could get as much of the embarrassment out of the way as possible. When I told her that, “They weren’t interested in having me work for them, just having a resident crazy person around,” she turned bright red and started cursing them so viciously that I finally smiled.

            After she spent twenty minutes hating them and extolling my virtues, I felt much better and she had calmed down some. So we watched _Mask_ , which is one of her favourite films, and it felt appropriate that we were watching a movie about a mother who’d do anything to protect her son.

            “Are you trying to tell me something?” I asked at one point. “Do you think I’m hideous?”

            She smacked my arm and told me to have more respect for the dead, but she made me eat another sandwich, because she thinks I’m too thin. I am.

            Now that my mother has made me feel better about life, I’m in a cab on the way home. The driver is Eritrean, so we talk about Helen Meles. We speak about the same amount of Arabic, which seems to please him, and I’m sad that the ride home is so short. I just didn’t feel up to walking.

            When we pull up to the flat and I see who’s sitting on the front step, I let out a long sigh.

            The driver looks back and says, “Pretty lady.”

            “Yes,” I have to agree. “She is.”

            I pay, and shake his hand, and extricate myself from the vehicle. Mette has already gotten to her feet, coming to stand on the other side of the gate. I shift my shoulders a few times, crossing the distance.

            When there’s only a metre between us, I look in her eyes. Mette gazes up at me, her forehead wrinkled, and says, “You have to forgive me.”

            “Why?”

            “Because I’m the only friend you have in Oslo.”

            I start to laugh.

            “Even—I cannot believe I put you in that situation. I thought Frode and I were on the same page—“

            “You didn’t tell me you talked to him when you were both drunk. Once.”

            “I talked to him more than once.” She shuts her eyes, scowling. “No, this is a shitty apology. I should have been more explicit with him. I just—I’m sick that I did this to you. I’m actually physically sick, and nothing about this will be right unless you don’t hate me. So just—tell me you don’t hate me.”

            I tap my cane against the ground a few times. With a sigh, I say, “I do not hate you.”

            I mean to tell her that I’m unimpressed, that I can’t remember the last time I was so embarrassed. That my life has its share of embarrassments, and I didn’t need any fucking help. Only Mette, my brave strong Mette, starts to cry. She presses her fingers against her eyes and bends her head.

            So I do the only thing I’m able, which is wrap an arm around her and pull her close.

 

“Frode feels terrible.”

            I bark, slipping my fingers around the second beer. “Yeah.”

            “No, I mean it.” Mette pulls something from her back pocket, and puts it on the kitchen table. “He showed up at my place and asked me to give that to you. He’s a good guy, he just—there was a miscommunication. That’s on me. I’m doing this for the first time, and—Christ.”

            I pop the lids off the beers, then limp back to the table. I give her one bottle, then brace my hand against the wall to sit down.

            Mette watches me. “How’s your leg?”

            “Better,” I say, even though I can’t tell. The piece of paper is folded into a neat square, with very crisp lines. I put my fingertips on it, turning it with my thumb. “What does it say?”

            “I haven’t read it. He said it was for you.”

            I make an indecisive noise from the back of my throat.

            “Even—this is my fuck up. 100%. I thought I was getting around Grete by just going through Frode, and that’s my fault. I’ve never made a movie before, I should have—“ Mette rests her elbows on the table and puts her head in her hands. “I can’t believe I’ve done this.”

            “Enough of that. What’s done is done.” I nudge her beer closer to her. She sits back with a huff and starts drinking. She doesn’t come up for air until halfway through the bottle. I smile a little, and just have a sip from mine. “No hard feelings. You’re right. You’re the only friend I have in Oslo. I need to pick my battles very carefully.”

            Mette looks at the piece of paper on the table, and says, “Could you just read it? I want to know that you read it. I want you to know that he’s sorry. Properly sorry.”

            “I don’t really want to right now.” She nods, chewing on her lip, looking into my eyes the way she does, and I sit sideways, my back to the wall. I debate whether to tell her for a moment, but then I figure, why not. “It’s not just your fault, or his. It’s mine.”

            “ _No_ —“

            “I should have known better—“

            “ _No_ , fuck that. Even, you are one of the most talented people I know, and you should be—you should be doing this, it’s what you want, and you deserve good things—“

            “That’s very sweet, but I’m not talking about that.”

            “What are you talking about?”

            “That place.”

            “What place?”

            “The coffee shop. You know how I stopped? How I said it used to be a bar I went to?” Mette nods, and I explain, “It was the bar I used to go to with my boyfriend and our friends. One of our favourite places. But it’s also in my top five worst memories. When I realized where we were going, I should have known things weren’t right. It was like the universe was sending me a big flashing signal, and I said, no, I’m smarter than that. I’m not very smart at all, though.” I can see what she wants to say, and I smile crookedly. “You think that’s silly, but I was right. It went wrong, didn’t it.”

            “Considering how wrong things went, maybe you’re onto something.”

            I can see that she wants to say something, but she’s holding back. “What?”

            Mette frowns. “Did…did I hurt you? I mean, I know I hurt you today, but the script…did that hurt you, that I took so much from you?”

            I consider it. “Not…hurt exactly.”

            “But something.”

            “It’s…” I have a long swig of beer before continuing. “It’s kind of like today, where…the only thing people really take away from my life is that I’m bipolar.”

            “That’s—“

            “That is what it feels like. Sometimes. And I know you, I know that’s not what you mean. But the fact that this piece of art is being made, larger than anything I’ve ever done, and the only way I can be connected to it is because of my—illness, that…does not feel good.” I catch her eyes. Mette doesn’t know what to say, and that’s all right. She doesn’t have to say anything. “I’m just complaining now. I should know better than to whine about my lot in life to a woman who’s the daughter of an immigrant.”

            “Everyone has something, Even. I mean, you won the lottery of life by being a white man, but—“ Mette shrugs, smiling wryly. “I suppose you have your own cross to bear.”

            “I want you to know that I’m not angry at you. I was this afternoon. I mean, I was pissed. But…I like you too much to stay angry. I’m still happy that you’re making the movie. I need you to know that. I’m very happy for you, and I want you to enjoy every second of it.” I pause, then say, “I’m not going to _see it_ , but—“ She cracks up, and I finish, “But I’m very happy for you.”

            “I’m not going to be able to enjoy it, though. Knowing that…I made you feel bad for something that’s not your fault.” She doesn’t mean it, and that’s fine. She’ll forget, and rush into something again. I am not the one to throw stones at her for that.

            “Ah, that’s just how life goes. Let me live vicariously through you.”

            “I just want to…I’m going to put it out there…if I could get you involved in some way that didn’t feel exploitative of your illness—“

            I point to her. “I said I’m not angry, but this might not be the time to have that discussion.”

            Mette nods. “Fair enough.” She sighs, and pushes back from the table. “I was actually sitting on your front step for an hour, and I really need to use your bathroom. But then we’ll drink more.”

            I nod. “Then we’ll drink more.”

            She gets up and goes to the bathroom, which is just around the corner, the only room that’s walled off in my small flat.

            I should put on some music. Or maybe we can watch a movie. I don’t actually have a television right now, so it would have to be on my laptop. Not exactly the best way to watch a film with a friend who’s going to be making her own movie.

            The paper sits on the table, just…being there.

            Rolling my eyes, I slip it into my hand, and unfold it.

 

_Even—_

_First and foremost, I am very sorry for what happened today. I feel like complete shit, which I should. Hopefully you can forgive me, but given the situation, I know that’s doubtful._

_I want to be clear that I very much want to work with you. This may not be the project for it. BUT I meant when I said that I looked into your work and what I saw impressed me a lot. The comic you did about Paolo’s nameless wife was fucking genius, and when someone does something fucking genius, of course you want to work with them. At the bottom, I’m including my contact information, and the information for some people I know who would love your work and who would be interested. Yes, I want you to know, they would be interested in your work, not just in what you have to offer given your personal history._

_Again, apologies for today, and an invitation. If you want to be involved in this movie, I would be happy to bring you on in whatever way I can, and whatever you would feel comfortable with. No intrusive questions asked! If I don’t hear from you, I of course understand, but I hope that you would let me (and Mette!) make this up to you, because I think that your work should be seen, and I would be happy to help you in whatever way I can._

_All my best,_

_Frode_.

 

            At the bottom, there’s his contact information, and three names, all of whom I recognize. One had a film go to Cannes last year.

            Very carefully, I fold the paper back into squares, and set it on the table.

            How many times can a person put themselves out there? How many times can the echo of hurt come back before it’s too much to stand?

            I find myself thinking of what Asvald would have said. He’d have said fuck these people. That it was clearly going to go to shit, and I was just setting myself up for disappointment. Of course that’s what he would have said. Blink and all of a sudden you’re in the fucking whirlwind.

            I remember how I knew I shouldn’t get into the car. But I did.

            “You look serious.”

            I raise my eyes, smiling faintly as Mette drops into the chair across from me. Dangling the beer from my fingers, I think about that. I got into the car. Everything telling me I shouldn’t, and I did. Only I’m still here.

            “Even?”

            I look at her, and say, “Could you use an assistant?”

            Mette stills, reaching for her beer. “Assistant?”

            I nod, keeping my expression even, like this isn’t making my heart pound harder than a dozen drums. “An assistant. For the movie. Someone to do things for you. I could be on set, get some experience, help you out with whatever you need. Give it a try for a little while, see if it works.”

            She stares at me, then says, “For real?”

            I nod, waiting for her reaction.

            Her mouth widens into a grin that threatens to split her cheeks. “Of course! Absolutely, I’d—you’d be okay with that?”

            Nodding, I say, “Sure. I mean, if you need me to run anywhere, that might be a problem.”

            “I’d love that—Even, I would love that so fucking much. And you’d be my assistant, so I could hire you, it wouldn’t be anyone else’s decision—you’d be credited, of course you would. I mean, I don’t know what the money would be like, the financing is so goddamn tenuous—“

            I shake my head. “Don’t worry about paying me. I don’t know how that would fuck with my disability. I just want the experience.” I pause, then decide I might as well push things. “And story credit.”

            Mette takes a second. Then she snorts, and says, “Of course. Only fair.”

            “You sure? We’re not going to agree to this, and then you’re going to change your mind on me in a few days?”

            “I will cut open my palm and swear a blood oath—“

            “Oh God, that’s far too metal. Next you’ll want to burn down a church.”

            “Between the two of us, you’d be the more likely suspect, white boy.” Mette claps her hands, looking absolutely delighted. “Fuck. Let’s do this.”

            “Let’s.”

            She holds out her bottle. I clink mine to hers, trying to ignore the fact that my insides are fluttering right now. This is an extreme leap of faith on my part, and I don’t know that anyone but me can appreciate how much.

            Mette is glowing. Her enthusiasm makes me feel a bit better, a little less nervous. I know she’ll take care of me. This is a person who’s seen me in a psychiatric ward, and come back for weekly visits. I trust her. I _want_ to trust her.

            God, please let this turn out all right.

            It’s okay to hope for things. I need to remember that.

            “This is so good,” Mette says. “You know what you can do with me? It’s my first real task that I’m doing next week, and I thought I’d have to be alone with Grete to do it.”

            “What is with this Grete? People talk about her like she’s a horror.”

            “She’s not. Well. Anyways! We’re going to the university to talk about shooting there.”

            I pause with my mouth on the lip of the bottle. Casual as I’m able, I ask, “Which university?”

            Mette rolls her eyes. “The RNoAFA. No, what do you think? The big one, man! Imagine how good it would look! The columns—Jesus, what if they let us shoot in the atrium?” She props up her head and grins at me. “This is great. This is so fucking great.”

            I smile back, because what else am I going to do?

            Except I’m trapped in echoes of old stories, and I have to wonder if maybe it was better to be where there was no more story at all.

 

 


	10. The Storyteller

_There was a man who was perhaps not exactly a man. I say this because his mother was a deer. Or at least, he said his mother was a deer. It could have just been a story he told._

_In fact, I’m willing to bet that it was. After all, he was a storyteller._

_He was discovered at the roadside one day, dirty and ragged, but surprisingly well spoken for one so young. He said that he lived in the woods. That he had always lived in the woods. He had lived with his mother, a deer, and sometimes a man would come to visit, a man who made his mother weep, a man who would not speak to the boy. The mother would go with the man for hours at a time, and then a day, and then two, and then she never returned at all. From that day onward, the boy lived on his own._

_He was taken in, bathed, hair cut, put in proper clothes and taught proper ways. The boy went along with this, because people seemed so keen to help, and it seemed to please them. But yes, there were times when he missed the grass beneath his head and the sky above his fingers and the whisper of animal tongues filling the evening hours._

_The boy grew, and became a man. He became a poet, and a warrior, which must be hard to do. I think that anyone who really understands poetry would be unable to strike a fatal blow. But the poet did just that, slaying his enemies with a strum of his guitar, his name a feared and loved thing._

_The poet was loved. His friends loved him. The people who took him in loved him. And he took a wife, who loved him too._

_But._

_The warrior poet wished for something other. Maybe it was his strange beginning that put this yearning inside him. Wherever it came from, it could not be quieted. Not by battle. Not by song. Not by the soft touch of his wife’s hands in the dark. Not by the laughter of his children. The poet longed for something new, something magical._

_He told stories of other worlds, of fantastic places he formed from his own mind. A place where men and women grew wings. A land where they lived in high towers and fire was never used to cook food. A place where gods and humans mingled so closely that they could not be distinguished one from the other. The people around him would laugh and marvel at his imagination, and they would retell his stories to one another, but they never told those stories quite as well as he. What a gift, they said, to see beyond this world._

_There’s a magic in words, though, and maybe speaking it aloud was some kind of spell. One day, the poet was walking the woods where he had once lived with his mother, and a woman appeared to him. He knew just from looking at her that she was not like the others. She was dressed in silver. Silver and silver and silver._

_She offered a hand and said, “Do you want to leave this place?”_

_The poet thought of his wife and children, of the home he had made, the life he had constructed. It was the thought of seconds, though. Just a fleeting thing. Stronger was the call of desire. Long had he yearned to leave this world, and he would not deny the opportunity before him._

_He took her hand, without a word spoken, and she pulled him into another world._

_The wonders the poet saw are without number. He befriended animals more cultured than any men, and met a woman who spoke only in colours. Symphonies played in orchestras ten thousand strong. Silence that was so loud his body turned inside out. Gods and goddesses that stretched into the heavens. Cars and trains and spaceships that travelled beyond this galaxy and back through the center of it again. He saw all this and so much more in the span of what seemed like moments._

_And then he missed his wife. He missed his children._

_The woman in silver asked, “Are you not happy? Have I not given you what you always desired?”_

_“You have,” said the poet. “And I am grateful, and I love you for what you have given me. Only I never said goodbye to my family, and I worry for them.”_

_“You made the choice to follow me.”_

_“I did, and I don’t regret that choice. I only ask if I could return for a visit, nothing more. This is where I want to be. I only want to know that they’re well. I only want to say goodbye.”_

_He meant what he said, as much as a person can mean anything that they say. So the woman in silver thought, and she said, “You are not a prisoner. You can go as you please. Take my horse, and go back to where you came from. When you are ready, you may return, and we will see many more things.” Before he could go, she continued, “I warn you—you must stay on the horse’s back. If you touch the ground, I will know that you have decided to stay, and my magic will leave you.”_

_The poet nodded, certain that it would be easy._

_But of course his feet touched the ground. It’s not a real story if it has a happy ending._

_The storyteller returned to his world, and even though the woman in silver told him he was going to the exact same spot from where he had left, something had obviously gone wrong. There were no trees, only grey lands with ashen earth that stretched across the hills, with the ruins of buildings in the distance. He wondered what trickery this was, if the woman in silver was teaching him some kind of lesson, if he would have to wander to find his people, his home._

_He inhaled, and that’s when he realized. The air tasted like home._

_He could remember what home tasted like, but he could not remember his wife’s name. He could not remember his children’s names._

_He could not remember his own name._

_The ruins in the distance, they had some strange familiarity. And he knew._

_A terrible noise came from overhead. It was like a bird of metal, the kind he had seen in other worlds, soaring across the sky._

_The horse bucked, and threw him, and the man fell to the ground. In an instant, he felt a change in his body. He could not move. In seconds, all the years he had avoided in the other realm began to take their toll on his body._

_His last thoughts were ones of regret as he turned to bone and then dust. He thought of those he had loved, and realized that once you move forward, there is no way to reverse course._

_You make your choices. Then you live or die with them._


	11. Chapter 11

Isak’s first day at the university, I woke him up early. He was not impressed.

            “What are you doing?” he groaned, pulling the blankets over his head. “What _time_ is it?”

            Bouncing the mattress with my knees, I said, “Six o’clock.”

            He lifted the blankets, squinting at me. “Six o’clock?” I nodded. He glanced back at the window. “Like—six in the morning?”

            “Mhm.”

            “What are you even—no.” He threw the blankets back over his head, so I could only hear a muffled, “No.”

            I shook him lightly. “Isak, it’s time to get up.”

            “Not until _seven_ , my classes don’t even start until—“

            “I made breakfast. I made your favourite eggs and everything.” I just kept shaking him. “You’re not going to school without eating a proper breakfast. Come on. Wake up.”

            He whined at me for close to a minute before I could tug the sheets down. He did that thing I loved—one of a million—where he dug his fingertips into the corner of his eye. I just smiled and sat and waited for him to be a human being.

            Finally, Isak looked at me and said, “How long have you been up?”

            “An hour,” I lied.

            “An hour.”

            I nodded. “Mhm.”

            “Was that hour more like three hours or five?”

            “Is this your way of telling me I look tired?” I flopped down beside him, wide eyed. “You think I look like I should get more sleep? I’m that hideous to look at?”

            He tried not to smile, but even when he was angry, I could still make Isak smile, and he wasn’t angry with me that morning, only exasperated. “You are never hideous.”

            “Thank you. I think you’re handsome too.” I propped my head up on my hand. “Do I look tired?”

            He studied me, then shook his head. “No. And I really hate you for that.” I clasped a hand over my heart, and he rolled his eyes. “Breakfast, you said?”

            Twisting back up, I grabbed his hands and tugged. “Made you breakfast! Come on!”

            “Don’t be so chipper,” Isak moaned.

            “You knew what you were getting into when you fell in love with me.”

            “I did _not_.”

            “Well, you knew what you were getting into when you moved in with me.”

            With a dramatic sigh, Isak said, “I suppose. All right, stop yanking on me. Let’s go.” I released his hands, climbing off the bed. “No, I changed my mind, give me your hands. I’m not getting up otherwise.”

            I grinned and hauled him to his feet. He was wearing boxers and one of my t-shirts, though that didn’t really matter. We wore each other’s shirts interchangeably. Pants were out, because I was several centimeters taller than him, but when it came to shirts, mine and his were not real concepts.

            Hugging him, I said, “Good morning, my university boy.”

            “I don’t know why you’re so excited. _You’ve_ been in university for a year.”

            “Yeah, but I don’t like school. You’re going to do great.”

            “I don’t like school either.”

            Pulling him after me, I said, “You don’t have to pretend like you’re not excited. I’m not one of your friends that you have to pose for.”

            “I do not pose for my friends.” I barked, and Isak protested, “When do I pose for my friends?” I felt him go quiet when he saw the table. I bit my lower lip, waiting hopefully for his reaction. After a second, he said, “Okay.”

            I’d made his favourite, which was a smoked salmon egg omelette, the kind that was too expensive for us to usually afford. I’d plated it and everything like I saw online, with slices of tomato. There was orange juice, which I did not like and he did. I even bought a little vase with røssling in it, just a few sprigs. There was a wrapped present for him too, in _Star Wars_ paper, because, well, I like _Star Wars_.

            Isak scratched his eyebrow, still trying not to smile. “You’re happy?” I asked.

            “I’m tired,” he countered, “because it’s six in the fucking morning.”

            I wrapped my arms around him, nuzzling my nose against his ear. “But you’re happy.”

            He sighed, and said, “First—can we afford that?” He gestured at the plate.

            “Yes.” Isak arched a brow, and I said, “I had some extra money.”

            Isak pulled back his head, eyes unblinking, and put his index finger in front of my face. “That’s one.”

            I let my head drop back, then said, “I picked up an extra shift.”

            He studied my face for a few seconds, then added another finger. “That’s two.”

            We gazed at each other, both of us with slightly raised brows, waiting to see who would crack.

            I did. “I _will_ pick up an extra shift.”

            “Yes you will,” he said, and stood taller to kiss me. I kissed the side of his mouth, where lines formed when he smiled. I knew it was sensitive there, and that it was one of his favourite places to be kissed. Isak dropped back down onto his heels, and leaned against me. “This is nice, but—you don’t _have_ to do this—“

            I pushed him towards the chair. “I know I don’t have to, I like to. And you have to admit, I have been very well behaved lately. I don’t spoil you nearly as much as I’d like to. So just be quiet and enjoy your eggs and let me be nice to you this morning.”

            Isak plopped down in the chair, looking over the table. “You even bought orange juice,” he said in appreciation.

            “Yes. That we could _not_ afford. You’re going to have to reimburse me for that.” I took the chair next to him, so my knee could bump up against his, and I leaned my head on my hand.

            I could have just watched him. There were times when we’d watch each other. I could have done it all the time, but I realized that probably came off strange. So if it was just me watching him while he did something, I’d count to ten before looking elsewhere.

            If I could help it. Other times, I’d just keep asking myself, _how did I get this lucky? I don’t deserve this. How did this happen?_

            Isak had a sip of his orange juice, then pushed his hair out of his eyes. It was getting long again, which I liked. I loved when it curled around his temples and the nape of his neck. Those curls would stick out under his cap, like the first time I ever saw him.

            He gazed back at me, then said, “Okay, what is it?”

            Innocent, I said, “What?” I glanced down at the wrapped parcel, and widened my eyes. “Oh—that? I don’t know. It was there this morning. I was worried it might be a bomb, so I decided to just work around it.”

            Isak lasted about three seconds before he picked it up, shaking his head. He was pleased, and that made me pleased. I felt like a huge nerd, like I always did before anyone opened a gift I was giving them.

            When he pulled back the paper, he snorted. “Seriously?”

            I took the paper, balling it up. It was an agenda. We’d gone shopping for school supplies the week before, and I’d tried to talk him into getting one, but he’d said it was pointless. “Listen—I know you’re just going to put everything into your phone or write it on your computer, but you need to have something to actually write on. Just in case. It’s important.”

            “What’s in it?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “I mean, what’s in it?”

            “Nothing.” He started to open it, and I slapped my hand down on it. Isak grinned, because he knew me, and I lifted my fingers a little. “Okay, I wrote something on each day, but you have to wait to look at the day. That’s the rule.”

            “That’s the rule, hmm.”

            “Yeah, that’s the rule. I put all that work into making sure you’d look at it, and you have to keep up your end by writing in it.”

            Isak nodded, turning the hard-bound book over in his hands. “Am I allowed to look at today, at least?”

            “You’d better; how else will you know where you’re supposed to go?”

            He flipped to the first page, and started laughing. “You wrote my schedule in here?”

            “Just for the first week. After that, you’re on your own. I might obsess about some things, but I am not your secretary.”

            “Pity. I’ll have to stick with my ugly secretary instead.” He tilted his head, and frowned slightly. “You forgot something.”

            “Uh oh. What did I forget?”

            He turned it around, and tapped low on the page. “That.”

            I looked at the blank spot for a second, then rolled my eyes. I got up, and grabbed a pen off the counter. Taking the book, I sat down. “Eat your breakfast. It’s going to get cold.”

            I inked in 21:21 as Isak picked up his fork. “Where’s your breakfast?”

            “I already ate.”

            “Even, that’s one—“

            Cringing, I looked at him and said, “I got it in my head to eat a tomato like an apple, and it was _not_ a good idea.” Isak gazed at me, then started to giggle. I pointed at the plate, telling him to eat, and wrote 21:21 onto every page of the book.

 

By the time he was ready to go, I was about to crash. I’d been awake since three, and I’d probably only had two hours of sleep before that. If I set enough alarms, I would wake up in time to maybe get to class at ten.

            I didn’t let on to Isak how tired I was. When he knew that I wasn’t sleeping, he would try to stay up with me, and he’d feel bad if he couldn’t make it, which he never could.

            “Where did my bag go?” Isak asked, coming around the corner. I was in the kitchen, sticking a plastic container in his backpack.

            “I made you lunch,” I said, closing the bag, and held it out to him.

            He smiled crookedly, taking the bag. “You’re a good housewife.”

            I dropped my arms over his shoulders, thinking about it. “I have been called a lot of things, but I think this is the first time I’ve been called a housewife.”

            Isak smiled, and slipped his hands under my shirt. He ran his hands up and down my back, and we stood there a moment, pressed against each other.

            It didn’t take me long to realize he wasn’t meeting my gaze. It never took me long to catch onto his minute changes in mood, unless I was lost in my own world. Tugging gently on his curls, I asked, “Everything okay?”

            “Yeah,” he said, in that way that told me he was not.

            “Are you not excited for today?”

            “There’s nothing to be excited about. It’s just school.”

            I furrowed my brows. “Are you scared?”

            Isak scoffed. “I’m not _scared_.”

            He was, and I had no idea why. But I knew when to push and when not. Something about school was bothering him, and he was nervous. My Isak, who was always so brave.

            I thought about it, then said, “Do you want me to take the trip with you?”

            “No,” Isak said quickly. Too quickly. “No, you don’t have to go for another—“

            “I don’t mind. Let’s face it. If I stay here, I’m just going to sleep all day.”

            “Lazy art school people.”

            “Yeah. How about it? Let me throw on some pants and we’ll go?”

            The way he looked up at me made me want to hold him close and refuse to let him loose. Seeing that I had put relief there was like someone opening their hands to show they’d been cradling a lit candle. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

            I didn’t, even though I had probably slept six hours in the last three days. “Of course not,” I said, giving him a quick kiss. “Let me get my things.”

            He caught me at the last second as I pulled away. “You really don’t have to.”

            I smiled, and nodded. “I know.”

            He smiled back, and let me go.

 

So when we met Mahdi on the tram, he just shook his head and said, “Do you two go anywhere without each other?”

            “I can’t let him out of my sight,” I replied. “I do and someone might steal him.”

            Mahdi and I kept up the conversation on the way to the university. Isak was strangely quiet, smiling in the right places, but it didn’t go to his eyes. Every once in awhile, I would discreetly run my fingers down his side, and he would give a nod, without looking at me.

            At the university, we got much of the same reception. Sana and Yousef were by the fountain, having a spirited conversation about basketball, which I have to admit, I don’t care about nearly as much as I pretended to, but when she saw me, she said, “This is becoming dangerously codependent.”

            “My boyfriend walked me to school on the first day,” Isak said defensively. “How is that codependent?” She pursed her lips, in the way that only Sana could. “Where’s the other two?”

            From the look on her face, there was only one answer. “How?” Mahdi said in disbelief.

            “They’ve been together two years,” Isak joined in, flabbergasted. “How are they still like that?”

            “We’ve been together two years,” I said, and he gave me a knowing look.

            “Yeah, but we don’t miss school to—“ I arched a brow, thinking of at least half a dozen times I’d been late to class because I couldn’t get my hands off him or leave our bed. Isak smirked, and the others laughed.

            “Okay.” I nodded back over my shoulder. “If I start walking, I might actually get to my classes on time, so—“

            Isak’s face went briefly blank. He nodded. “Yeah.”

            I paused, glancing at the others. They had definitely seen it too. I bit the side of my mouth, then hit his elbow. “Hey, come here a second. Excuse me, everyone, I need to give my boyfriend a really embarrassing speech about how I’m proud of him and things like that.”

            Isak let out a groan, and Mahdi tapped his watch a few times with a grin. But Isak followed me away from our friends. I walked at his side, wanting to take his hand, but this was a new place, and it would be his place, and I didn’t want to make things weird for him.

            Hands in my jacket pockets, I turned to face him. His mouth was parted, his brow creased. I waited a moment, then prompted, “I can’t actually read your mind. I mean, I wish sometimes that I could, but that’s not a thing I can do. So if you want to tell me something, you have to actually tell me.”

            Isak shoved his hands in his pockets, looking at the ground for a moment.

            “Just nerves,” he said.

            “Baby, you don’t need to be nervous. You’re going to be great.”

            He jiggled his foot a few times, then said, “What if I’m not?”

            I shook my head. “What do you mean?”

            “I mean…I’m not that smart.”

            “Yes you _are_ —“

            “I’m not. I mean—I get that’s how you see me, but I’m not actually all that clever. I am—aggressively average.”

            I smiled, lopsided. “Isak, of the many things you are, even to your biased boyfriend, average is not one.”

            “But—seriously, what if I don’t do well?”

            “You will—“

            “But what if I don’t?” I finally saw that he was truly, incredibly concerned about this, and it took me off guard. Isak was always honest about his strengths and weaknesses in school. He’d never failed anything, and his marks were more than good enough to secure him a spot at the university. It had never even been a question. So why was he so scared now?

            Stepping closer, I lowered my voice. “Why are you this worried?”

            “I just…” He shook his head.

            “Isak.”

            “Will you be mad if I just bomb all of this?”

            “Will I be—of course not, why would you think that?” He looked so absolutely miserable that it was breaking my heart. I bent my head, trying to catch his eyes. “Hey. Of course I wouldn’t be mad. I’d never be mad at you. Why would you ever think that?”

            “I just…” In a rush, he said, “I need to be able to take care of you.”

            I narrowed my eyes, not understanding. “You already take care of me. I take care of you too. Right?”

            Isak nodding, saying, “Of course you do. I don’t know what I’m saying right now, forget I said anything—“

            Except that’s when I realized what he meant.

            Staring at him, I said, “You don’t think I can take care of us.”

            Closing his eyes a moment, Isak said softly, “No, that’s not what…”

            I stepped back. After a few seconds, I said, “Wow. Okay.”

            “Even, I didn’t say that, I didn’t mean—“

            “Yeah, okay—“

            I tried to move away, but he grabbed a handful of my shirt. Now he was looking at me face on. “Even, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s not about you being bipolar—“ I glared at him, and Isak amended, “It’s not entirely about you being bipolar, okay? It’s—I love what you do. I love that you want to make movies and write songs and stories and do all these things and I support that. I support _you_ , okay? In whatever you want to do. I just want to make sure that we’re—safe. Okay? That you can do the things you want to do and not worry about it. I want you to do everything, and I want to help you do that, and what if—I just don’t want to let you down.”

            It was pretty difficult to stay mad at him. Even irritated. I’d look at him, and melt. That’s just how it was with him and I.

            Isak took another handful of my shirt, stepping close to me, tilting up his chin. No mistaking what we were to each other if people looked.

            “I can take of myself,” I told him.

            “I know. But _I_ want to take care of you.” He took a breath, and asked nervously, “Are you upset with me?”

            I thought about it for a moment. Then I thought about all the shit he put up with from me, and knew I was getting off light.

            I put a hand on top of his snapback, smiling, and murmured, “Life is good, life is good, life is good.”

            Isak smiled, and kissed me. His mouth tasted like orange juice, but it was still sweet.

            Our friends’ hollering broke up the moment, and Isak pulled away a few centimetres, cheeks flushed, but looking relieved. “This is one of those serious conversations that we should keep having…”

            “But you need to get to school.”

            “ _You_ need to get to school.”

            “I get out before you. I’ll meet you back here, and we can discuss how I am quite capable of looking after myself. But—that I like when you look after me too.” I gave him a teasing push backwards. “Go. Be brilliant.”

            “Where will you be?”

            I looked around, and the first thing that caught my attention was a statue facing the square. Pointing, I said, “I’ll be there.”

            Isak grinned, and said, “Of course you will.” He walked away, glancing back at me to say his goodbyes. I stayed where I was until he was with his friends, waving when he looked back a final time.

            Then I found the library on campus and slept there the rest of the day. When Isak was done class, I was waiting for him by the angel statue.

            And that’s where I waited for him every day.


	12. Chapter 12

Mette mutters, “Christ,” for probably the fifth time since we’ve arrived on campus, and I shake my head.

            “You think it’s bad for you,” Grete says, casting a cool eye around. “Imagine what they look like to me.”

            “Infants?” I suggest.

            “Zygotes.”

            I like Grete. I don’t know what the issue is. I get that she’s the voice of reason, the one who says yes and more importantly _no_ when questions are asked. Someone needs to be that voice. I’ve no talent for it, but it doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate those who are. I don’t understand physics either, but I can revere mathematicians.

            She is about fifteen years older than we are, her short blond hair going grey. She wears a leather jacket so old it’s started to go blue in the creases. When I met her, she looked me up and down and said, “Nice cane.” So I liked her immediately.

            We came to campus an hour and a half before the meeting. I’m the only one of us who spent any time at Blindern, and I wasn’t even a student. But Grete thought it would be good to know exactly where we might want to shoot, so I took them to the old haunts. Little nooks and crannies that you wouldn’t get on a campus tour.

            Mette took notes the entire time, down to what I used to order at the Turkish bakery. She got defensive at first, but Grete just shrugged and said, “Detail is good.”

            It’s a chilly day, clouds gently sailing along above our heads. The leaves have changed colours as much as they can, and just started to fall. A few days more and it will start to look melancholy. But right now, walking with two awesome women, on a bright autumn day, I have no complaints.

            Other than this fucking leg, but what else is new.

            Grete pulls out her phone, and says, “Time to go see how much ass kissing we need to do.” She juts her chin up at me. “You want to come see how the sausage gets made, or do you want to preserve your innocence?”

            I would absolutely love to see how the sausage gets made. However.

            Smiling, I say, “My naivete about the magic of movies is just about the only naivete I have left. I think I’ll cling to that and leave you to it.”

            Mette looks me over, and asks, “How’s your leg?”

            I sigh.

            “Oh,” Grete says. “Shit, I didn’t think.” She rolls her shoulders. “Next time, just tell me to slow down, okay? Anyways. Meet you by that sheet metal monstrosity in an hour?”

            Yes. I fucking like her. Acknowledges, moves on. “Sounds good.”

            “Good. Come on, kitten.”

            Mette casts me an irritated look that I can only respond to by grinning. I also like Grete for inexplicably calling Mette ‘kitten.’ Apparently there’s a story there, but Mette refuses to tell me.

            I wait for them to get a fair distance before trying not to lurch to the nearest available seat. At some point, this leg is going to improve. It will. I put my hand down to the concrete ledge so that I don’t just drop.

            Once I’m seated, I can acknowledge that this is all—yellow curtains.  

            In other words, fucking uncanny.  

 

I make myself see things as they are and not how they were. I walk around the campus, keeping my pace slow but steady.

            I play the story game.

            People play the story game all over the world. I’m sure of it. All you have to do is look at a stranger and come up with their story, just by looking at them. A lot of people that I’ve played with, they tend to take as many context clues as possible into consideration before coming up with their answer.

            I usually just take one.

            This tiny blond girl is named Dallas after the TV show, not because her parents were fans but because her grandparents were, and they died in a car crash on the way to the hospital when she was born, and the mother named her that before the father could stop her. None of her friends know where her name comes from.

            The thin boy with dreadlocks down his back is from Birmingham, and his favourite thing in the world is the scent of pencil shavings.

            The man with the bald head isn’t a man at all. Inside, there is no gender, and they want to tell everyone the truth, but they told their wife, and the next day she found out she had cancer, and her dying wish was that they never tell anyone because doing so would embarrass the children. So they wear suits and ties and that’s why their face is etched in a permanent frown.

            Every person I make a story for has something unique about them, because that’s just how people are. It’s an illusion, though. There is no such thing as unique. No matter what, someone has done it before. Either here or in another universe that might look exactly like this one.

            They are so young. I mean—everyone always says that. And no matter how many times they do, we’re still surprised when we return to the places where we were young, and we see that the people in our place are _children_. I’m not even that much older than a lot of them. I’m 26, and students here start at 19 for the most part. A man who’s 79 doesn’t think he has that much difference from someone who’s 72.

            Except I look at their faces, smiling or blank and strangely fresh, and I feel like we’re on opposite ends of a spectrum. What it’s measuring, I don’t even know.

            It’s okay. Let them be. You don’t know their real stories. There’s more going on there than just being different from you.

            I smile at that, and keep walking. My leg feels better after sitting for a spell, and going at my own pace. My legs might be longer then Grete and Mette’s, but do those two go at a pace.

            When I reach the square, as I knew inevitably that I would, I take a moment to consider things. Not that many changes in four years. A new store, but that seems to be the extent of it. The fountain is still there, and the Haukeland sculpture. Students still sit on the steps, though it’s a quiet time of day.

            I have memories here—many memories—and maybe it’s the weather or the light or something else entirely, but the memories don’t hurt like I thought they might. It was easy to not think about things when I was with Grete and Mette, but on my own, my mind has a history of wandering, and suddenly trapping itself in a loop.

            I don’t care about the fountain, or _Air_. I walk east across the square, like I knew I’d have to when Mette said we were coming here. Other than a quick glance to make sure it’s still there, I don’t look where I’m going. I wait for a group of students to walk by—one girl gives me an appreciative glance, and I smile back—then go the rest of the way.

            There’s a stretch of scaffolding that’s not really there for anything other than shade. I walk underneath it, back out into the light, and there it is. The statue.

            I plant my cane, both hands on the handle, and smile up at the figure. “Hello angel.”

            It stands before a wall, on a cobble stoned platform in bare feet. It holds another smaller figure in the palm of its hand, wearing what looks like Grecian or maybe Roman robes. The statue is a fairly blunt thing—there isn’t much nuance or emotion to its face—but I like the way its sleeves droop, and I’d spend time pondering who the figure in its hand was. I never looked into it. I don’t know why people settle for the truth when a story is usually far more interesting.

            The clouds move just enough that the sun comes down on me. Warmth on a cool day. Perfection.

            After a moment, I step forward, lifting a hand from my cane. The angel’s right hand is lifted, almost in benediction. I graze its index finger, smiling crookedly at the thought of it imbuing me with holy purpose.

            Then, just because I can, I put a foot up on the little platform, so I can be close enough, and I reach up. I run the back of my fingers up and down its cold cheek. It has an unimaginative, straight nose, but lips that curve, completely out of place with the rest of the face. I thumb over the bottom one, thinking of what would happen if I turned out to be Pygmalion.

            Too funny.

            I step back, resting both hands on my cane, and look at this fond memory, this strange piece of art that’s truly all over the place, and I wonder if that’s why I loved it so.

            My name.

            My name has been spoken. Two syllables from a nearby voice, and I realize that I thought four years would be enough to shield me from this feeling in my chest. It’s not. Hearing him say my name is like a spear piercing me through.

            I manage to breathe again, then I turn my head to look at Isak.

            He’s gotten within a few steps of me. Close enough, I imagine, to make sure that it’s really me. I don’t know if I’ve managed to keep whatever the fuck it is I’m feeling off my face, because Isak certainly hasn’t. He’s staring at me, barely blinking, like if his eyelids drop a millisecond too long, I’ll prove to be an illusion.

            I don’t know how to tell him that I’m very real. I don’t know how he could possibly be.

            He’s like every other memory I’ve encountered in this city. It’s him, but not quite. He’s wearing a light grey buttoned shirt, and dark grey slacks, overtop of some very nice brown leather oxfords. He looks comfortable like this, and I remember trying to make him dress like anything other than a teenager, and coming up against resistance that one would expect in guerrilla warfare. His hair has gone long again, parted on the side. This is a parallel universe Isak if there ever was one.

            There’s a pile of papers in his hand, dangling at his side. He’s about to lose them. He’ll drop them if he doesn’t stop staring at me. Maybe I should stop staring back, but that would mean knowing what to do. And I have absolutely no idea of what should come next.

            Enough time passes that I realize things have become very dramatic. So I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Hey.”

            Well done, Even. No idea how you managed to make your voice sound _that_ casual, but a round of applause might be in order.

            Isak blinks, and says reflexively, “Hey.”

            His mouth. Jesus, how could I have forgotten his mouth? I knew its contours, the strangeness of it, his small feral teeth, but the realness of it—that’s what you lose with distance. Everything gets a gloss to it, like a screen between you and the past.

            The papers are slipping. I look down at them, and Isak grabs them awkwardly. They go in three directions, but he manages to catch them, wrinkling a handful. I watch as he sets them right, his cheeks flushing.

            I take stock. I think I’ve managed to keep a poker face, so thank Christ for that. The one word out of my mouth somehow managed to sound completely unsurprised, like I was expecting to run into him. I shuffle my feet slightly so that I’m facing him, and I hold my shoulders straight. One thing I have always been good at is making a good impression if I really try. I’ve seen enough movies; I know how to strike a pose.

            But fuck, I am white knuckling my cane.

            Isak holds the papers in both hands. I’m not sure how much of a shield that will be for him. He’s gazing at me again, completely open. I think I’d forgotten that too. How I could always read his face.

            I don’t say anything, because I don’t know what the hell to say. I could start with, _why are you in Oslo_ , but that seems a bit confrontational. And running away is still not an option for me. Give me a few more months, maybe that will be back on the table.

            Isak says, “I didn’t know—you were here. I mean—“ He screws up his face. “In the city.”

            “I could say the same for you.”

            He frowns for a second. His eyes are so focused on me. If I _could_ run away and hide, I think I’d want to. If anyone was not designed to stand up to scrutiny, it’s me. “How are you?” he asks, and that’s one of my least favourite questions of all time.

            “Fine,” I lie. “Yourself?”

            He lets out a short laugh. “Fine,” he echoes. He’s nodding, and I don’t know if he’s trying to tell me or himself. “I’m fine.”

            I press my lips together and nod once. Like he’s told me something that means something. The both of us saying that we’re fine means nothing.

            I nod to our surroundings. “So what brings you here?”

            That little frown again. That says I should know something and he’s not sure why I don’t. “I work here.”

            “Oh.” I am still holding out hope, though. “Didn’t I hear that you were living—where was it? Aarhus?” Like I don’t know damned well that he moved to Denmark years ago. Please tell me he’s just visiting. Don’t tell me we’re actually living in the same city. My broken brain can only take so much.

            Isak pauses before speaking. “No, I’ve—been back a year.” Fuck. He narrows his eyes a second before saying, “Did your mother not—?”

            I tilt my head forward. “My mother?”

            His eyes clear, and he winces. “No. Wow, I’ve said something I shouldn’t. That’s—great. Really great.”

            “You’ve spoken to my mother?”

            He looks at me, judging what he can get away with. Not much. He always was a terrible liar. “Yes.”

            You must be fucking joking. Can’t say that. I’d look unreasonable. So instead I say, “Okay.”

            “I just—“ He reaches out a hand, trying to articulate something, then stops trying. Instead, he ruffles up his hair before smoothing it down again. “What about you? Are you—back?”

            “No,” I say without hesitating. “Just visiting.” I look back across the square, in the hopes that Grete and Mette will be there and I can be rescued from this disaster. No—still off making movie sausage. “My friends had some business here, and I said I’d wait around until they were finished.”

            Of course, we both think about how I used to wait in this exact spot for him to get out of class, which was not my intention. I don’t need to bring up any more memories than the ones that already want to rise in a wave and crush me.

            Isak clutches the stack of papers to his chest with one hand. Those won’t protect you. If my cane isn’t going to protect me, papers are going to do very little for you.

            If I don’t speak, I’m going to look as overwhelmed as I feel, and I refuse to be beaten by this encounter. “What is it that you do here?”

            Those eyes. God damn it, those green eyes that _watch_. “I’m—“ He glances down. “A researcher.”

            That was a bit sheepish and, more worryingly, evasive, but the only reason I’m pushing is because I don’t want him to start asking me questions. “Researching what?”

            For a second, he looks pained. Then he nonchalantly gestures to the east, like I can’t tell he doesn’t want to answer. “I’m at NORMENT.”

            I give my head a shake, because that means nothing to me.

            I can basically hear him cursing in his own head. “The, uh…” Isak inhales, then says, “Centre for Mental Disorders Research.”

            Beat, heart. You need to beat.

            I should blink at some point. That’s a thing my body should do. “Right,” I say, like this all makes perfect sense, like I don’t want to scream.

            It’s official: I fucked up my ex boyfriend for life.

            Maybe we’re finally even.

            That’s a really shitty thing to think, and I don’t want to be the kind of person who looks at life that way. Like every relationship is on a balance and we need to count every single weight on either side to make sure that no slight goes unanswered for, that every kindness must be tallied.

            Anyways, it might not be _just_ my fault. He has a crazy mother, after all.

            Fuck, I am an awful person sometimes.

            Isak is blushing, like he’s imagining every terrible thing going through my head and thinking he deserves it. He swallows, and asks, “And you? What are you doing?”

            Yes, Even, what _are_ you doing?

            I smile slightly, and say, “A little bit of everything.”

            Isak nods, understanding, and I hate that he knows what I mean. Then he flicks a finger in the direction of my cane and asks, “How are you doing?”

            He knows about the accident. How much, I don’t know. But he knows enough. And I have a really sickening hunch that it’s my mother who told him.

            Steady. _Steady_.

            “Fine,” I say placidly. I glance down at the cane, just to show that I don’t mind its existence. Thank fuck for this beautiful black cane with its silver head. Just seeing it makes me feel more secure in myself. If I’d run into Isak while I still had the grandfather cane, it would have been game over. “Getting better.”

            Possibly the first honest thing I’ve said in the last two minutes.

            “Good,” Isak says quietly. He looks down at the ground, and I don’t know who I feel more sorry for, me or him. We’ve exhausted the small talk, and now all that’s left is everything awkward. The truth or the past or who knows what. “Um—“

            I glance to the west, just in the hopes of seeing Grete and Mette, and thank the nonexistent gods and their endless names, because there they are, my fucking salvation.

            “And there’s my friends.” I raise my eyebrows at Isak. “So.”

            He’s off kilter again. “Right.”

            Isak starts to open his mouth, and I get this awful feeling that he’s going to ask for my number or if we can get together while I’m still in town—I might move back to Sweden after this encounter—so I say, “Good seeing you,” and turn away.

            “Right,” I hear him repeat softly.

            If I don’t say anything, it seems like I’m trying to escape. Which I am, but I don’t want it to look that way. So I look back, and as I speak, he tries to speak too. Isak silences, still all unblinking eyes. Hair lit up gold in the sun.

            With a smile, I say, “You look good. Take care.”

            I walk away.

            Have to get out of here. Have to have to have to get out of here.

            I’m twelve meters from the women, but I look at Mette and mouth in desperation, ‘ _Run.’_ She stops dead, and then begins to pivot. Oh, she is a good friend. Grete follows her lead, and they slow down just enough for me to catch up.

            “Go,” I say. “Go, go, we have to go.”

            “Why?” asks Mette. “Who is that?”

            “Isak,” I hiss.

            “Isak—“

            “My ex boyfriend who’s supposed to be living in Denmark.”

            “Holy shit, that boyfriend?” Mette puts her arm through mine and says to Grete, “Go. We need to go.”

            “Whatever you say, kitten.”

            My heart is in my throat and I didn’t want to do this. I never, ever wanted to have to see his face again. Only what I want and what happens are rarely the same thing.

            When are they _ever_?


	13. Chapter 13

I have one beer before calling my mother. I think one might be just enough to take the pointiest edges off my upset. Two might be better. Three would be better still. More than that and I might get belligerent. But I can’t have more than one beer because I have every intention of taking the last two pain meds I’ve hoarded for months, the ones that knock me out.

            If there was ever an occasion for dreamless sleep, this is it.

            I put the beer down on the counter, hard enough to clunk, then snatch up my phone. Fuck it, I’m doing it. This is unreal. I cannot believe this is happening.

            There’s a tone, and then Mom picks up. “Hi Even.”

            I don’t say anything, because I can hear it. I can hear that she was expecting me to call. And she knows why I’m calling.

            I’m so livid for a moment that I literally can not make words come out of my mouth. I turn in a half circle in my kitchen, knowing I’d probably only break my hand if I punched the cupboards.

            “Are you _kidding_ me,” I push out.

            “Even—“

            “And what, he _called_ you after? How long have two been doing this? What, you tell him everything I do? How the fuck is—“

            I pull on my hair. I have to take the phone away from my ear, because what I want to do is scream. I want to scream at my mother but I can’t do that because the only times I’ve ever screamed at my mother have been when I’m sick. I will not be the kind of man who screams at his mother.

            Instead, I just throw the phone across the apartment.

            My head is pounding. One beer obviously wasn’t enough. I have the pills waiting on the counter. Getting another beer from the fridge, I crack it open and take a mouthful. I down the pills, and I don’t give a shit if this is a terrible decision. I just need this to _stop_.

            They went behind my back. That’s not being paranoid; it’s apparently just a fact. Years ago, I might have expected this. But that it’s still going on?

            Unbelievable.

            Asvald’s voice sneaks in. _Of course they did this. This is what people like that do. They don’t really care. They just want to control you._

            I twist my hands into my hair and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to cut off his voice.

            _Who’s That Knocking at My Door? Boxcar Bertha. Mean Streets. Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore. Taxi Driver. New York, New York._

My phone is vibrating. The best thing would be to leave it.

            I am so _mad_.

            I walk across the flat as fast as I can and grab the phone. Jabbing my thumb against the screen, I’ve barely put the phone to my face before I’m speaking. “You _know_ how I feel about him, and this whole time—“

            “Even, calm down—“

            “Has that ever worked? Has telling someone to calm down ever worked? _Ever_? In history? No. It’s a ridiculous phrase, a nothing phrase, and I can’t believe this, I can’t believe you—“

            “If you won’t calm down, I’ll hang up.”

            “You called _me_!”

            “If you aren’t going to listen, I’m going to wait until you’ve calmed down. That’s the deal, remember? There’s no point in getting into things if you’re not going to listen to what I have to say.”

            “What you have to say—“

            “You can go first, Even. Say what you want to. I’m listening.”

            “You sound like my fucking therapist, only not nearly as good.”

            “She’s a professional, and I’m your mother. I’m doing the best I can. If you want to say something, Even, get it out. You know I can take it.”

            I’m not the kind of man who yells at his mother. I’m not. I am an adult, and I can control myself. I do not need other people to do it for me.

            _Saint Tropez Blues. Pacto de sangre. Esta noche no._

            “Even.”

            “I’m counting,” I say tightly.

            Mom stays silent. I should have chosen someone with a longer filmography. Norvind had a total of 12 films to her name. Next time I’ll pick Bergman, I swear to Christ.

            When I reach _Born Without_ , I take a deep breath and start shaking my head. I can speak, and my voice is trembling, but I don’t feel like combustion is imminent. “How long have you been talking to him? This whole time? What, this whole time, you’ve been telling him things?”

            “No. I talked to him for a few months after you broke up, because he wanted to know how you were doing. Then I didn’t hear from him for a few years, because he needed to move on. That’s what people do. He reached out last year after your father died. To pass on his condolences. We talked. We kept in touch.”

            “You kept in touch. With Isak.”

            “Yes, with Isak. Even—I love you, there’s no one in the world I love more than you. But Isak was part of our family, and just because you decided to stop loving him didn’t mean that I had to too.”

            “Yes! It does! You are my mother and mothers are supposed to take sides in these things! And not the side of the person who isn’t their actual child!”

            “Even, you’re old enough to know that there’s no such things as sides. That’s a really simplistic way of looking at the world, and I know you’re upset right now—“

            “He knew about the accident. Did you tell him about the accident?”

            There’s a pause from her end. “I did.”

            “ _Why_? Why would you do that? What purpose does it—he and I have been broken up for four years. He was the guy I dated when I was basically still a teenager. Why would he need to know that?”

            “Because _I_ needed to tell someone. All right? I got the call, and it was three in the morning, and I didn’t know what else to do. We’d gone for coffee a few times—“

            “ _Coffee_?” I yelp.

            “I am trying to talk to you. He’s the only other person I know who cared about you the way you deserved—“ I scoff, and Mom snaps, “Stop that. I needed to talk to someone and—I did a thing I didn’t understand. I called him, because I had to call someone. So I told him. Not everything is about you. Sometimes it’s about things being more than I can stand, and I have to do something. Do you understand that?”

            “So you talk to the only other person who knows what it’s like to put up with me,” I say acidly.

            “I talk to someone who I know I can trust—“

            I have to put the phone down this time and actually speak out loud. “ _Freud flytter hjemmefra, Brev til Jonas_ —“

            When I finish the list, I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. I can hear my mother’s small voice coming from the phone. I hold it in both hands looking at it.

            How could she do this? She knows what happened. She was there.

            I put the phone back up to my ear, covering the mouthpiece, and I listen to her.

            “Even—Even, I know you’re angry with me. I know that maybe you feel like—I betrayed your confidence, but that wasn’t what I was trying to do. I’ve seen him a total of four times since he came back to the city. He texts me sometimes to check in or tell me when he’s done something. His own mother—she’s not doing well. He’s a good man—I didn’t tell you I was talking to him because I knew you’d react like this. With him—I know you don’t want to hear this, but you took things completely out of proportion—“

            Mouth dropping open, I say, “Out of _proportion_?”

            “Yes, you did, you’re old enough now that you should be able to recognize that—“

            “My heart _stopped_ ,” I say. “Do you remember? Do you remember that my heart actually stopped? And I’m taking him out of proportion.”

            “I’m not—Christ, Even I’m not saying that he didn’t do something wrong—“

            “Something. _Something_. The things he said, would you have ever said them to me?”

            “He was twenty years old, sweetheart—“

            “And I trusted him, and my heart…stopped. That’s all I’ve got. That’s how that love story ended. And it ended, Mom. It’s over, and I don’t need you—whatever it is that you’re doing. Don’t talk to him about me, don’t—“

            “Even, please, if you’d be reasonable about this—“

            “Tell me you didn’t tell him that I moved back. At least give me that much.”

            She doesn’t say anything.

            “Mom. Mom, tell me you didn’t tell him.”

            “He—he seemed to already know. He asked when you’d moved back, so I told him—“

            Fuck. He played her and she didn’t even see it. “I told him I was just visiting. So whatever else he told you, you want to think you can trust him, you go ahead and do that. But if you’re going to talk to him, leave me the hell out of it. There’s no going back once you’ve left a place. It’s just done, and I want no part of it. Being here—coming back here was a mistake. I made a mistake coming back here.”

            “Even, no, stay on the phone—“

            “I don’t want to talk to you for awhile.”

            I hang up and put the phone on silent. I toss it under the bed, and I try to figure out what will make this thing in my head silent.

            Time. If I give it enough time, the pills will do their work.

            So I go get my beer and start listing Bergman’s filmography. Better than counting sheep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to the folks who have commented and left kudos and bookmarked. You're all made of stars.


	14. Layla and Majnun

_Crazy people fall in love. They do the same things as everyone else, really. We read books and go for walks and make bad jokes and make lists. We spend too much money on coffee and wonder how to pay our bills and complain to one another about bureaucracy. And we fall in love._

_Of course, when we do, there’s the question of if we really did fall in love, or did so because we’re ill. Or if falling in love is the very thing that made us crazy._

_Layla and Qays grew up together. There was not a time they could not remember how the other smiled. From the beginning, Qays was obsessed by words, and Layla encouraged him. He would write in the sand with a stick, because there were so many words that his parents thought the cost of parchment would be too much to bear. The sand would take the words away, and so Layla brought him a chisel and said, “There are always rocks.”_

_They loved one another from the start. There was never a question between the two of them that they would be together always. They had been together from the start—of course they would be together until the end._

_The logic of children does not mean much to adults. As they grew older, their parents tried to tell them it wasn’t appropriate for a boy and girl to be so close. But Qays didn’t care that Layla was a girl, nor did Layla care that he was a boy. They were the best of friends, and destined to be with one another. That was how it was written. Qays would know—he had carved it into a rock._

_Then the day came that Layla was not allowed to leave the house. Qays stood at the front door with his chisel and stick, confused. He asked why she wasn’t allowed outside._

_“It’s not a woman’s place to be seen with a man who’s not her husband,” her mother said, and closed the door._

_Qays stood outside the door, all of twelve years old, and said to the air, “Then I will be her husband.”_

_Left to his own devices, with no one to tell his words to, he wrote relentlessly. He wrote wherever he could find the space. The ground, the rocks, the walls. He would use an arm to write on the air, looking up at Layla’s window from a distance, where she would watch and wave to him, trying to decipher what he said. Every word he wrote was in praise of her._

_He wrote that he would marry her. He wrote that he didn’t care what her proper place was, or his. He didn’t care what was proper at all, only that they should be together. He wished that he was a woman, so he could be welcome at her side. He wished that she was a man, so she would be welcome at his. He proclaimed his love for her endlessly, unashamedly, his heart full for her and her alone._

_But it wasn’t right that a man should be so bold in his declarations. It was odd. It was strange. It was not_ right _. The others began to regard him with dubious glances at first, then mutters, and then the word was first spoken: majnun. Madman. The word, once spoken, was spoken a third time, and seventh, and twenty eighth, and then the day came when no one spoke the old name anymore. Now he was Majnun, and Majnun only._

_The day finally came, after years of trying to prove his worth through words, that Majnun came to the door of Layla’s home, and asked to speak to her father. He had filled the world around him with all the love in his heart, and knew that no one else alive could ever rival the depth of feeling he had for this woman._

_“I’ve come to ask for your daughter’s hand,” he told her father. “There is no one who loves her more than I.”_

_Her father took in the sight of him, and scoffed._

_“You?_ You _are a crazy person. You have dishonoured yourself and my daughter with this insanity. I would never marry my daughter to a madman. She will marry a proper man. Stay away.”_

_He went to close the door, and Majnun said, “But I love her.”_

_The father shook his head. “You’re obsessed. You don’t know what love is.”_

_And Majnun was left on the streets outside the house, surrounded by the words he had written in praise of Layla._

_Soon after that, he came back to the house, determined to prove himself. He would make them understand. If they would not listen to him, they would listen to Layla. She would tell them that she loved him. They were her family; they would listen to her._

_But when her mother came to the door and Majnun made his plea to her, the mother said, “Layla is gone. She has married. A proper man, a man who can take care of her.”_

_The words did not make sense to Majnun, not even to him, whose years had been composed of words. The mother told him that Layla had been sent some nights before to marry a rich merchant in the north._

_All that he knew came crashing down. He had believed in one thing, one person, for so long and so hard, that he could not bear to continue in the world as he had been. He staggered out into the desert, no food, no water. The only companions he took with him were his heartbreak and his stick._

_People would see him, from time to time, wandering through the sands. They would say, there is Majnun, the crazy man who yearns for his lost love. He would come and go, more ghost than man._

_Layla died soon after. It was said she died of a broken heart. That her last word was the name of the man who none called by his name, but his illness._

_Majnun moved north, until one day his body was found not far from Layla’s grave. Every surface near where she lay had been inscribed with love for her._

_The last thing he wrote for her was this:_ I pass by these walls, the walls of Layla. And I kiss this wall and that wall. It's not Love of the walls that has enraptured my heart, but of the One who dwells within them.

            _Repeatedly, this has been called the_ Romeo and Juliet _of the east. But it’s always called Layla and Majnun. Even to this day, we call him a madman. That’s more important than the fact of their love._

_You can’t escape crazy._


	15. Chapter 15

I met Asvald in the hospital. He caught my attention because when medications were passed out, he stuck out his tongue, proving that he’d swallowed what he was given. Then he would walk away, and when I saw him reach up and toss something through the vent, I figured he was someone I should know.

            I dropped down next to him on the couch one day. He barely cast me a glance, watching old episodes of _Doktor Mugg_.

            “Hey,” I said, and he ignored me. I waited a moment, patting the arm of the sofa. “I’m Even.”

            “Why should I give a shit?”

            He was a few years older than me, with dark hair and stubble. There were deep lines around his mouth that were probably from scowling. Sure as hell weren’t from smiling. “No reason. I was just wondering how you got around taking your medication.”

            “I take my medication.”

            “No you don’t, you throw them in the vent.”

            He finally looked at me. His brown eyes were blood shot. “You tell anyone that and I’ll beat you until you piss blood, pretty boy. Understand?” I put up my hands, and he went back to watching the television, muttering under his breath.

            I gave it a few seconds, then said, “How do you do it, though?”

            Rolling his eyes, he said, “Go away. Stop bothering me. You should know better. I’m a crazy person. I’m dangerous. Didn’t you hear?”

            “If you were really dangerous, you wouldn’t be in here with the rest of us boring disasters. Tell me how you do it.” He sighed, and I said, “They won’t let me out of here unless they think I’m taking the pills. I’m not taking the fucking pills anymore. I feel—smothered. I can’t breathe. In my head. You know?”

            He tapped his foot a few times, arms firmly crossed, then said, “You must be an attempted suicide too. This bullshit liberal society usually lets us crazy folk roam the street otherwise.”

            “Not even attempted. I just needed to sleep, and I took too many pills.”

            “Manic?”

            “Mm. I’d been up three days and I felt like my heart was going to explode. I didn’t realize how many pills I was taking. But no one believes me, because I’ve tried to off myself before.”

            “You must not really mean it, if you’re still here.”

            I raised a brow at him and said, “Well neither must you.”

            He pulled down the sleeve of his left arm, and the extent of the damage there was the worst I’d ever seen. “I meant it.”

            “Who stopped you?”

            “Sister. You?”

            “My boyfriend. Well—ex boyfriend now. He couldn’t take it. That’s fine. They usually can’t. He deserves better anyways.”

            “You’re gay?”

            I shook my head. “I’m pan. I date whoever.”

            “Lucky bastard. I’m straight. I’m stuck with women.”

            “I love women. Why don’t you like women?”

            “Because they don’t like me.”

            “Maybe that’s because you don’t like them.”

            “Don’t get cute.” He tugged his cuff back into place, shifting himself around on the couch. “What have they got you on?”

            “Risperidone, I think. My stomach’s killing me, I can barely keep my eyes open, and I haven’t been able to shit in days.”

            He grunted. “They’re trying to shovel clozapine down my throat. Every time they give it to me—“ He motioned to his head. “It’s like there’s a drill in my head. I think that’s the reason they give it to people. You’re so busy being miserable that you don’t have the energy to hurt yourself.” He looked me over, then said, “Even, was it?”

            “Yeah.” I held out my hand.

            He regarded it a moment before shaking it. His hand was smaller than mine, but broader, square. “Asvald.” When he let me go, he shrugged. “It’s fucking easy, man. It’s something every uncle knows.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Coin trick. You know—behind your ear?”

            “Oh. Really? That’s all it is?”

            He pulled out a coin and tossed it to me. I caught it, and he said, “It came to me in a fit of inspiration when my niece was born. You’ll probably have to practice or something. At least if you ever want to shit again.”

            I turned the coin over in my hand. “How does it work?”

            He sighed, exasperated, and then he showed me.

 

He spent two weeks trying to teach me chess, but it wasn’t something that really captured my attention. If I’m interested, I can focus relentlessly. Otherwise, I can’t quite be bothered.

            “You memorized the fucking Q’uran but you can’t remember how to move your queen,” Asvald muttered one day.

            “I know. I’m ashamed of myself,” I said with no conviction.

            He took one of my knights. I had only held on with the chess as long as I did because of _The Seventh Seal_. “You’re absolute shit at this.”

            “That’s unfortunate. Seeing as I have such an encouraging instructor.”

            “Enjoy it while you can. I get out of here next week.”

            I looked across the board at him, surprised. “Really?”

            Asvald snorted at me. “Don’t give me that. I know how to get out of these places. You say the right thing, eventually they have to let you go.”

            “Are…you ready?”

            “Of course I’m ready. Eat what I want, sleep when I want. Fuck when I want—well, I would if a woman would look at me twice, but that’s what money is for.”

            “That’s what your left hand is for.”

            “Fuck yourself, pretty boy.”

            I wasn’t sure how to put it. It wasn’t the kind of conversation I’d had with another person before. “I, uh…what I mean was, are you going to…”

            Asvald waited, looking at me blankly, then shrugged. “Am I what?”

            “Will you—be okay?”

            He barked. When he realized I was serious, he shook his head. “Really?”

            I shrugged, not used to being on this side of the conversation. “Who’ll teach me chess if I hear you’ve gone and done something permanent?”

            “You’re not going to learn chess no matter what. Your head’s always in the clouds.” Asvald didn’t even wait after I moved my pawn, just swept it up with one of his own. “Besides, what do you care?”

            “Well…we’re friends, aren’t we?”

            I didn’t know why he seemed so off guard. I’d never seen him look at anyone like that before. Either he was grimacing or glaring or smirking. In that moment, though, he just stared at me, like I’d revealed I was a martian or something.

            Defensive, I said, “What?”

            Asvald shook himself, averting his eyes. “We’re not friends, Even. We’re just stuck in the same place together.”

            “No. We’re friends.”

            “We’re not.”

            “Why don’t you think so?”

            “Because…”

            “I’m waiting.”

            “You don’t make friends here. I leave here, I go back to my shitty life and my shitty apartment and I’ll probably drink myself into liver failure by the time I’m 35. You, you leave here and go back to your real life—“ He gestured to me. “You look like that. People like you. You’re just passing through. We’re not going to see each other again after we leave here.”

            “Fuck you. Of course we will.”

            “Bullshit we will,” Asvald said, and he was blushing.

            I studied him for a minute, and finally I got it. I didn’t understand why he felt that way, but I understood what was going through his head.

            Rubbing my lower lip with my thumb, I took a moment before saying, “So listen. I never have crazy friends. I find out someone’s mentally ill, I stay away from them. Always have. I find out someone’s got a crazy family member, I stay away from them. Know why I do that?”

            “We’re really gonna talk like this? Isn’t that what those fucking therapists are for?”

            “Maybe, but I don’t want to talk to them. I want to talk to you. I stay away from those people because I’m fucking embarrassed that I’m this way. I always have been. I always feel like…a burden. Like I’m never as good as other people. That’s what it’s always like. So I pretend to be like other people, but I’m not like other people. And—so my last boyfriend, the one who broke up with me when I came here, he was trans, and he said something that kind of reminds me of what I’m trying to say.”

            “Trans. Which way?”

            “I said boyfriend, so what do you think? Anyways, he said to me that it’s awkward to go out in a group of trans people. If it’s just you, and a detail or two is off, people don’t really notice. But if there’s more than one of you, normal people, they look at you, and they know. Being in a group, it doesn’t make you safe. It exposes you. That’s how I’ve been with other…sick people. I stay away from them because I don’t want regular people to know there’s something wrong with me. But, uh…I like that you know what I’m talking about. I like that I can talk about things with you and you’ve done them too. I don’t have to explain myself all the time. You just get it. I don’t have to act like things are okay with you. Christ, you act like things are _never_ okay.”

            “They never are,” Asvald replied, and I laughed.

            “So, if you don’t want to see me after you get out of here, that’s fine and whatever, but I want to see you. Because you’re my friend, and I like being around you.”

            His cheeks had flushed. Finally, he grumbled, “You just like fucking unnerving me with all this emotional honesty shit. I’m straight, you fucker, I don’t know how to deal with that.”

            “Being straight doesn’t mean a person is emotionally stunted.”

            “For me it does.” Asvald toyed with his knight a moment, then shook his head. “You’re wrong, you know. There’s nothing wrong with you. Or me. The world is a fucked up, terrible place, and sometimes we see it for what it is. That’s not crazy. That’s just not lying.”

            “Well, maybe there’s nothing wrong with me, but there’s definitely something wrong with you.”

            That cracked him up.

            “So? Friends?”

            He shrugged. “Whatever. I’m not holding my breath on seeing you once I get out of here.” He scratched his head. “So this boyfriend of yours—did he have a vagina?”

            “What’s it matter?”

            “I’m curious.”

            “Fuck your curiosity. I’m not telling you that. It’s none of your business what his genitals looked like.”

            Asvald sighed and said, “And here I thought we were friends.”

 

A week after I got out of the hospital, once I was settled back into things, and my friends weren’t watching me every second of the day, I was finally able to get out my phone.

            ‘Want to hang out? No chess though. I’m terrible at it.’

            It took close to twenty minutes to get a reply back. ‘Who is this?’

            I rolled my eyes. ‘Your friend.’

            Five more minutes went by. I laid on the bed, holding the phone over my head and scrolling through upcoming movie releases.

            Finally, I got another text. ‘Oh. You. I want to get drunk so you can come along if you want.’

            I smiled. I knew what he meant. ‘Come pick me up first.’

            ‘Why would I do that?’

            ‘Because you have a car and I don’t.’

            ‘Friendship sucks. Go away.’

            ‘I’ll see you twenty?’

            ‘See you in 20.’


	16. Chapter 16

Everyone has finished their lunch, and we’re just sitting around the table with coffees. Mette has been strangely quiet, just listening to everything that Grete and Frode chat about. I speak whenever I can, because I have questions, and I’m no one important, so I don’t have to worry about embarrassing myself.

            “Slim,” Grete says.

            “Shit, really?”

            “We went through this on the last one. Shooting in hospitals is a pain in the tits. We should find something that’s shut down, that we can slap some paint on. Or a group home or something. Group home, that’s the better idea.”

            “You think.”

            Grete nods, flipping through a text. “I do.”

            “But—“

            “No, Frode.”

            “We could look into—“

            “No, Frode.”

            “We can’t even discuss this?”

            “No, because life is short and I’m not spending any of it arguing with you about something I know is a dead end. We’ll find a group home that wouldn’t mind some money. It’ll be more realistic.”

            “It will,” Mette says.

            Frode looks at her. “Yeah?”

            She pauses, then nods. “Yeah. It’s not like I was thinking of an asylum or anything. You know what I wrote. It’s just—a room. Not a lot of bright colours, furniture sort of beat up. Not like there’s bars on the windows. That’s not the movie we’re making, is it?”

            “No. We’ll talk to Jorunn, see what she can do about it, what she thinks. I’m thinking maybe a greenish palette? Make sense? Washed out a little?”

            I can’t help myself. “Flickering fluorescent lights?”

            Forde glances at me, and raises his shoulders. “Well—“

            “They’re not like that,” I say. “The places I’ve been, they’re nice. A little beat up, but no flickering fluorescents. We’re in a welfare state, not _Silent Hill_.” He grins a little, sitting back.

            “How many have you been in?” Grete asks.

            Mette and Frode are quiet, and I take just a second to collect myself. Putting up a few fingers, I say, “Three. But I was in the one twice.”

            “Three different hospitals.” I nod, and Grete says, “So can you tell this idiot that we don’t need to waste our time trying to get a permit to shoot in a hospital?”

            Looking at Frode, I lift a shoulder. “You don’t have to waste your time trying to get a permit to shoot in a hospital.”

            To Grete, Frode says, “Next one, I want to shoot in a hospital.”

            “You’ve got some sort of medical fetish,” Grete mutters. “I’m not here to enable you.” She squints at me from under her brows. “So you’ve been in, what, four times total?”

            I nod again.

            “It help with anything?”

            There’s a question. I expect people to ask why I was there in the first place, not if things were made better. “Uh…yes and no.”

            Mette speaks up. “He doesn’t need to be interrogated.”

            “Kitten, if I was interrogating him, you’d know.” Grete shrugs at me. “No offense, kid. Just asking.”

            And because it’s her, I don’t mind. “It’s okay. If you have questions, that’s fine. The answer is—sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn’t. The first three times, I was there against my will. The first two, I’d tried to kill myself, and the third one, I was manic and accidentally overdosed on sleeping pills. Don’t give me that look, Mette, it was accidental. And the last time, it was after my father died, and I checked myself in. That’s when I finally got a good therapist, finally started taking medication regularly. So—it helps to a certain extent, but it all sort of depends on how much you put in.”

            Grete nods, unfazed by what I’ve said. “God helps those that help themselves.”

            “You’re religious?” I ask, surprised.

            “No, but it was the first thing I could think of.”

            Frode folds his arms on the table, nodding to me. “ _Can_ I ask something?”

            Mette hisses. “What did we—“

            “Sure,” I say.

            “What would you listen to while you were there?”

            Another good question that I did not anticipate. “Ah, well—last time, I just wrote a lot of my own things and played my guitar. The other times? A lot of Nas.”

            “Nas?”

            “Yeah, like—“

            “ _Illmatic_?” Frode asks.

            “Yeah!”

            Mette rolls her eyes. She puts her head in her hands. “Lord save me from the whitest men in existence. There’s a reason I wrote Anders as half Algerian. If you decide to make the soundtrack hip hop, it won’t be wildly exploitative.”

            Ignoring her, Frode say, “What’s your favourite line of his?”

            “Jesus, that’s a tough one. I mean, as a person who’s been manic, I’ve used ‘sleep is the cousin of death’ more times than I can count.” I give it a lot of thought. That whole album is so fucking good that it’s difficult to just pluck out pieces. Chewing on my lip, I say, “This rhythmatic explosion is what your mind has chosen.”

            “Nice. I gotta go with, ‘Visualizin’ the realism of life in actuality, fuck who’s the baddest, a person’s status depends on salary.’ Hey, what do you think of the later stuff?”

            Before I can speak, Mette says, “Fuck Nas.”

            Jaw dropping, I say in mock outrage, “Fuck Nas?”

            “Yeah, you heard me.” I make a noise of disbelief, and Mette arches a brow at me. “Does he use the word ‘faggot’ on that album all you pasty boys get hard over?”

            I make a face. “He does.”

            “Yeah. A bunch of bullshit male peacock posturing. You’re grown men. You should have gotten over this by now.”

            Frode and I look at each other.

            Then he looks at Grete.

            After a moment, she sighs. “Fine, I’ll look into licensing.”

            Mette groans, and I just grin.

 

I pause outside to button my coat up the rest of the way. It’s chilly. The wind has come in, and a few of the snowflakes that fell yesterday have decided to stay.

            Mette took off about five minutes ago. She’s not happy about some of the decisions they’re making, but at this point it’s not just her project anymore. It belongs to a lot of people. On Monday I’ll go with her to meet the casting director. There’s not really much for me to do, but she just asks me to go along with her. She doesn’t even need an assistant, not really. She’s just letting me tag along.

            And that’s fine.

            “Even.”

            I turn, smiling down at Grete. “Hey.”

            She zips up her leather jacket, squinting up at me against the afternoon light. “You dance much?”

            I stare at her.

            Then I twirl my cane and say, “Yes, actually, this is just an affectation.”

            She rolls her eyes, and says, “You know, I didn’t even think about that. No, it’s just—my partner’s kid mentioned this club. He’s a sweet kid, actually likes his mother. I don’t know, sometimes I think it’s weird, but who am I to say? Everyone’s weird, and I don’t have any kids of my own, so what would I know? But you said you’re still new in town. You seem like good people, and Mette said you didn’t have any other friends here, which seems like a pity.”

            I arch a brow. “Grete, are you trying to get me laid?”

            “Well, if that’s what makes you happy.” She pulls out her phone, scrolling through. When she finds what she’s looking for, she turns it to show me.

            I take a second, then look at her. “Milk?”

            Grete rolls her eyes, and puts the phone away. “Yeah, queer bars have to have terrible names. I don’t know why it’s always been like that. Like it’s a law or something.”

            “Can I make an observation?’

            She sticks her hands in her pockets and shrugs. “Sure.”

            “Why do people have such a…” I make a non- committal noise, not sure how to finish the sentence.

            Grete finishes it for me. “Why do people think I’m a bitch?”

            “Yeah.”

            “That’s just what people do. Form their opinion, blab to others, then you get a reputation. And I am a bitch. When I need to be. Life’s too short to let people walk on you. When I’m nice, people think I’m just fucking with them, though, so—“ Grete raises her shoulders.

            I smile crookedly. “I haven’t been to a club since this happened.” I wiggle my cane.

            “You seem like the kind of person who’d have fun at one of those places.”

            “I bet you’d hate them.”

            “A bunch of nineteen-year-olds in underwear writhing against one another in the dark? Yeah, I’ll be at home with my dogs, thanks.” She nods to me. “You go, let me know how it was. Text me after you two meet Annalise on Monday if you have any questions.”

            “I will.” She turns away, and I say, “Hey, Grete?” She looks back, frowning a little. “Thank you for being nice to me.”

            “Yeah, well—I Googled you, after Frode told me about that fuck up him and Mette made with you. You’ve had a shitty year. Doesn’t cost anything to be nice to someone who’s had a shitty year.” She starts to walk away again, but stops and points at me. “Before I forget—my partner’s kid, he’s a little shorter than you, red hair, has his lobes stretched out. Name’s Tom. Fuck anybody but him. He’s only eighteen, and I’d have to beat the shit out of you. Cool?’

            I smile, and nod. “Very cool.”

            “All right.” She walks away, a hand above her head. “Take care!”

            I think that maybe the best thing about this project so far is that I now know Grete.

            I stand on the sidewalk, thinking about it. Then I pull out my phone, and as I walk away, I look up the club.


	17. Chapter 17

I almost don’t go because of the cane.

            I’m dressed nicely, a new blue shirt that make my eyes stand out even more, and I’ve polished my boots. I made sure that I know how to get to the club, and how to make my way back home even if I’m a little (or a lot) drunk. I have condoms if I decide I want someone. I have just about everything I need.

            I just don’t know what to do about the cane.

            Do I go without it? My leg feels fine right now. It’s been a good day, and I’m a bit shocked at how it doesn’t hurt. It usually does once evening comes around. I sit down on the edge of the bed, rubbing my hand over my shin. If I do that, pressing into my scar, I can feel an ache, but it’s not terrible.

            I can’t go without it. I’m not an idiot. I’m going to a club, and there will be dancing, if there’s dancing I’ll _dance,_ damn it, but I haven’t danced in a long time. Other than in my own home, I haven’t danced, and not for more than a few minutes at a time, if I’m really feeling a song or just feel silly. Doing something physical that I haven’t done in awhile, I’ll need the cane sooner rather than later.

            But what do I do with it? Just leave it against a wall? Take it with me on the dance floor? Coat check it?

            I’m getting caught up on something small instead of thinking about how I don’t want to go _because_.

            I do want to go. I love going out dancing, and the music, and the people, and the energy. That’s always been a thing I’ve enjoyed.

            If I go out though, I’ll be alone. There will be no friends to protect me. It will just be me, surrounded by strangers, and the first thing they’ll see when they look at me is my cane.

            What if I run into someone I know there? Queer communities are always small and incestuous. Of course I’ll run into someone I know there, even though I was gone for four years. After the first time I went to a club in Stockholm, there were always faces I recognized and names I knew.

            I will not run into Isak. I refuse. When I step inside, I will take a look around, and if I see him, I will walk right back out again.

            _Will you do that forever? If you mean to stay here, you can’t run every time you see his face_.

            It’s a big city. I’ll manage.

            I knew that when I came back here, I would have to see familiar faces. I didn’t fret and obsess about it, thanks to the meds, but now that I’m here and I’ve run into the person at the top of my list of people I never needed to see again, it’s no longer a hypothetical. I will see people who practically know my life story, and have had years to solidify their opinion of me.

            Great.

            It shouldn’t matter to me what other people think, especially these people. They knew me years ago. I’m sure they all took sides—his side. The friends I had that were only mine, they all left whenever I got sick. People who leave, their opinions shouldn’t matter.

            Except they do. It’s always mattered. It affects how I dress, how I speak, the way I walk. I’ve always been completely trapped by what people think of me. I’ve done everything I can to manipulate how people perceive me. I want people to look at me and remember; I want people to look at me and forget. I want to be a story people tell each other after I’ve gone; I want someone to say my name and the only response be, “Even Bech Næsheim? Never heard of him.”

            I’m worrying myself into a corner. I am a social person. When I’m out with people, I have fun. Getting out, leaving the house, that’s the problem. Sometimes. Fuck. Why can’t I be consistent?

            Because I’m not consistent. I’m bipolar. And I’ve chosen this instead of a life where I only feel things in neutral.

            I shake my head and shove myself off the mattress. If—when—I see people I knew, I’ll just deal with it. I’m 26. I can’t spend my life afraid of ghosts.

            And I need the cane to walk. That’s facts. Anyone has a problem with that, whatever. Some people need canes to walk.

            Irene says that every day is filled with moments of quiet bravery. I don’t know that I believe that. Nothing I ever do feels particularly brave. If I stayed here, though, I’d feel like a coward.

            So I guess I’m going.

           

The beat calms me down.

            Some things are international. You go into a McDonald’s, some of the items on the menu might be different, but it still feels like a McDonald’s. You don’t speak the same language as someone, you might not be able to speak, but someone brings out a football and everyone can communicate just fine. It doesn’t matter how you do your laundry, inevitably you _will_ lose a sock.

            Queer bars are all alike.

            They’re a lot like other clubs, but with a few notable differences. It’s the atmosphere. There’s this sense of glee in queer clubs. Almost every single person there knows what it is to be hidden, and this is one of those places where freedom is law.

            Which isn’t to say that everyone loves it or feels a part of things. But the prevailing attitude rises up and hits you with a wave of joyous abandon. Sure, if you stop and look at the particulars, it’s not going to be reassuring. No amount of bodies can hide the faint scent of bleach needed at the end of the night. The music is 75% ironically awful, 20% unironically awful, and 5% unintentionally good. People play into stereotypes because they don’t know any better, and cruelty is a possibility on the edge of most encounters.

            Still. I love these places.

            I slip through, eyes peeled for people who aren’t looking where they’re going, either because they’re drunk or just intoxicated by where they are. This place is still new enough that things are shiny. The floor hasn’t gone sticky. I wonder if I’d prefer that. It might make it more difficult for me to fall.

            I love blue lights. If I decided what colour all the lights in the world were, I’d choose blue. They wash away so many imperfections, and everything looks like a romance. Like most queer clubs, the lights pulse, shifting shades against the dark walls, but I think they look best when they stay blue. Red is too warm.

            Someone plows into me from the side. My grip on the cane strengthens. “Sorry,” he says offhandedly, but his face changes when he sees that I’m attractive.

            I walk away. Life’s too short for people who only give a shit if you meet their rigid standards of beauty.

            I’m not sure what the song is that’s playing. It’s terrible. It makes me smile.

            I get a beer, then head up the stairs to the second level. It looks a little less full up there, and I can drink my beer without worrying about being knocked off my feet. Leaning against the railing, I look down at the dance floor.

            I met Mats in a place like this. I’ve dated on and off through the years, but never long term. He and I lasted six months, which is a good stretch for me. We met how I usually meet people in these clubs. I looked for the person who was by themselves, looking lost. I make friends that way, I pick up that way. There’s always people in these places that don’t know how to interact, how to meet people.

            So I meet them.

            I’d been going to the bar for a few months, usually in a larger and larger group. I have a talent for making friends, not keeping them. After awhile, I’d split off from everyone and go find someone else. That’s how I saw him. A short man with a wispy little beard, chewing on his lip and leaning against the wall.

            I walked up to him and said, “Hi, I’m Even.” He looked up at me, not even coming up to my shoulder. When he didn’t say anything, I said, “Do you want to dance?”

            “Don’t make fun of me.”

            I went stricken, wondering what social blunder I’d made this time. “I’m not making fun of you. Why would you think I was making fun of you?”

            He shook his head. “Because I look like this.” He gestured to me. “And you look like that.”

            “Is it my shirt? You don’t like my shirt?”

            “You know what I mean.”

            “No, I don’t.” I leaned against the wall beside him, raising my brows. “Why don’t you tell me?”

            “Don’t be a dick.”

            “Now I’m being a dick? All I did was ask you to dance because you’re nice to look at. Are you this angry at everyone who asks you to dance?”

            “No one asks me to dance.”

            “ _I_ did.”

            He scowled at me, then said, “Fine. You want to dance? You want people to laugh? Let’s dance.”

            He pushed off the wall, and I took his hand. He went completely still, like I’d frozen him with my touch. “Hey,” I said quietly as I could. “You don’t need to be angry. I just think you’re cute.”

            He stared at me, then shook his head. “No one thinks I’m cute.”

            “ _I_ do.”

            Yeah, we had a good run, Mats and I. Rough start, where I had to spend the first three dates convincing him that I wasn’t trying to trick him. I thought I had trust issues when it came to dating. After all the shit he went through, being trans and gay, my things seemed minor. I really liked him. I loved him. He was the first person I’d fallen in love with in a long time.

            Then he left. I don’t blame him. I kind of expect it from people now. Except my mother. My mother will always have my back. And Irene, but that’s because she’s getting paid.

            My friend Tillie thought that I went after the weak ones in a crowd. I think that’s nowhere near close to the truth. I see the people who look like they don’t belong, and I understand how they feel. I can make people feel good. Even if it’s for a few minutes, or a night. I can make people feel like they belong.

            It’s a nice feeling. It makes me feel less trapped in myself.

            I sip my beer, and watch the crowd, and no one approaches me.

 

There are a few faces that are familiar. From my perch on the balcony, I can see who comes in and out of the club. Mostly people whose names I’ve long since forgotten. People I went to school with but wasn’t friends with.

            I come down to the bottom of my beer, and make my way back downstairs. I’m alone, so my limit is two. When I go to the bar, I find it packed, with a line. Instead of bothering to navigate that, I look around for another. There’s usually more than one in these places.

            Ah, at the back.           

            I take a few steps, then I hear a surprised, “Even?!”

            Here it is. Knew it would happen, and it has. So who have I run into? Which of my ghosts are here to haunt me in this loud, happy place?

            I turn around with a smile, flexing my fingers against the cane. “Hi.”

            I knew it would be bad. I even considered that I might run into him. But I’d wanted to hope…well. Hope is usually not the smart option.

            Eskild shakes his head, with that jaw-open smile he would give when he wasn’t really happy, but just at a loss of what to say. He’s holding a drink that’s half empty. His hair is red again, good—last time I saw him he had bleached it yet once more, and I always liked it best when it was red. It’s starting to thin a little. I do have occasional moments of worry when I think of how my father died with almost no hair left. But I take after my mother in looks, I think. Except for his smile.

            “Hi—“ He starts towards me with arms open, then stops. I’ve already moved forward, because he was going in for a hug. With an awkward laugh, he puts his arms around me and pats my back gingerly. He smells like alcohol and hair products.

            I wrap an arm around him and squeeze. “Nice to see you,” I lie. I’ll get away with it, because I’m an amazing liar. People assume my smile is sincere. It’s one of the great genetic gifts of my life.

            “Oh,” Eskild says, off guard, and when he tries to extricate himself from my hold, I let him go. He’s looking up at me with wide eyes. Like the first time I ever saw him, washing my face in his bathroom when I was nineteen, and he was trying to figure out why I even existed. He opens his mouth again, scrambling for something to say, and it takes a few seconds for him to get something out. “I heard that you were back.”

            I think he regrets just blurting out my name when he saw me. That’s always been Eskild. Heart first, head second, always. I only put heart first about two thirds of the time.

            “Yeah,” I say, smiling like I’m thrilled to see him. “Close to two months now?” I reach out with my free hand, giving his arm a quick graze. “You’re looking well.”

            His shoulders go up a second with pleasure. He could never resist a compliment. “You too. Even with—“ Eskild stops himself, looking very blatantly at my cane. Then he laughs, making a face. “Uh—you look good!” He gestures to my face.

            “Thank you.” If I don’t get the focus off of me, it will just keep going like this. “So what have you been up to? What are you doing?”

            He looks relieved to be allowed to talk about himself. That’s the thing about Eskild—I’ve never known another who could move so quickly between confident and wise and painfully awkward. “Oh…not much. I…work in a shop.”

            “A shop, what kind of shop?”

            “Clothes. It’s like—boutique? The owner, she designs everything and she and some of the girls sew them. I don’t sew, I just sell things. I tried to sew, but it was—“ He shakes his head, as if living through a traumatic memory. “A disaster.”

            “That’s too bad.”

            “No, it’s fine. There’s plenty other things I can do. I mean—I can’t think of any right now, but—“ He waves a hand. I do feel sorry for him. I shouldn’t stay in this conversation any longer than necessary, because I can tell he’s going to say something that will make us both feel bad. I can just sense it.

            He starts to speak again, only I cut him off. “I’m glad your hair is red again.”

            “Oh! That is so sweet.” His hand automatically flattens over his hair, smoothing it forward. “I was thinking about shaving it again.”

            “No,” I say, shaking my head. “Don’t do that.”

            “You don’t think so?”

            “No, it’s a beautiful colour. You should show it off.”

            Making a face, Eskild says, “I don’t know if you can tell—it’s not really noticeable—but it’s getting a little thin.”

            Expression serious, I shake my head again. “No, I don’t see it.”

            “Oh, well—you always have that perfect hair. It’s so unfair. You could be in bed a week and get up and it would still look perfect.” Eskild squeezes his eyes shut. “Not that! I wasn’t talking about—I was just saying, like—if you _had_ done that, not—“ He coughs, then suddenly motions at my cane. “I heard you were in an accident; how are you doing?”

            “A lot better,” I say. “I broke my leg, and it’s mostly healed, but—“ I shrug with a smile. “I like the cane. It makes me look very dramatic.”

            “It does! You definitely have that like—sensitive, wounded thing that people go for. I bet you pick up all the time with that.”

            “No, I bet you do way better than me.”

            A bit sad, Eskild says, “No. I mean—I do fine. I’ve always done fine. Maybe I need to do something else.”

            “You’re good just as you are.”

            He whacks my arm lightly. “You’re a liar. But yes, I am good just as I am.” I grin, and he says, “I’m boring, though. I’m run of the mill.”

            “You’re just fishing for compliments now.”

            “ _No_. Everybody has a thing. I don’t have a thing.”

            “A thing, what do you mean?”

            “Like—a gimmick or something. People are memorable. I am not memorable.” Before I can speak, Eskild keeps going. “I mean, good memorable, not like—I mean, does it matter? Does it matter what kind of memorable you are if people look at you and remember you?”

            I raise my brows, and take a second before saying, “I’ve never thought it mattered. Better to be memorable in any way you can.”

            “You must be happy. You have two things to be memorable for now.” His face falls, and here we are. The moment we both knew was coming.

            And it stings. No—no, it hurts. Because I like him. I’ve always liked him. Still, seven years after meeting him, the thing he remembers me most for is being crazy. Now I’m lame, too. Fantastic.

            Eskild takes a breath, trying to gather himself, and I know it will get worse before getting better. “I mean—not just two, you have _so many_ things to be remembered for, like—um—like—“ He’s getting flustered, and he can’t think.

            I don’t rush to help him out, because I’m a little pissed that I’ll always be known as the madman. Two thousand years after my death, that’ll be the only name they use for me.

            When I can’t take it anymore, I ask, “What are you drinking?”

            He looks at the glass, like he had forgotten it was in his hand. “Whatever it is, either too much or not enough.” I chuckle, honestly, and he looks me in the eyes. “Even, I’m sorry, you know—“

            I nod. “Yeah, I know.” I do. I don’t hate him. I’m just…whatever. Onwards. “You must be happy to have Isak back in the city.”

            Eskild presses his lips together and nods. “Mm. I—heard you ran into each other.”

            “We did.”

            “Awkward.”

            “It was,” I agree.

            “Was that the first time since—?”

            “Yeah.” I reach back for the memory. “I never thanked you for the flowers.”

            “The what?”

            “When I was in the hospital, you sent me flowers. These huge yellow flowers, I don’t even know what they were. They were gorgeous.”

            He obviously doesn’t remember. It was four years ago, why should he? “I’m glad you liked them.”

            Time to flee. I need a legitimate reason to take off though, not just ‘this has been painful, despite the fact that I enjoy you.’ I glance around, looking for something, someone.

            There.

            She’s maybe a little younger than me, in a small black dress. Her platinum hair falls almost to her waist. She’s tugging at the hand of her friend as he tries to leave her to go to the dance floor with a boy who has purple hair. He laughs and pulls away from her, and she’s alone.

            She stands there, lost in the middle of things. For a moment, she wrings her hands.

            Eskild has started to speak, but I say, “Sorry, I see an opportunity.”

            “Oh! Okay—well, it was nice—“

            It was not nice running into each other, and I don’t want to hear the words. So I dodge forward and kiss the side of his mouth. He’s too shocked to do anything but jerk slightly.

            I pull back a few inches, smiling at him. “It was good seeing you.”

            I turn and walk across the club.

            Strangers are easier. I could be anything to this woman. I could say anything, rewrite my own history. Give her another name, tell her I’m a pilot, try and impress her with my limited Arabic, see what kind of movies she likes and pretend like I was an extra in one of them. I can be anything.

            I don’t have to be just one thing.

            Touching her arm, I put on my best smile when she turns to look up at me. I hold out my hand and say, “I’m Even.”


	18. Orpheus and Eurydice

_This one is simple._

_They were married. She died on their wedding day. He was devastated. He couldn’t accept her loss._

_So, like any person would, he played his lyre day and night, weeping for her and making the world weep with him. The farmers would not go to the fields, the birds would not sing, the grass would not grow. The world withered with him._

_His father, coincidentally a god and not thrilled about a) his son being sad and b) his son accidentally killing the earth, suggested that Orpheus descend to Hades and try to convince the gods of the underworld to give back his wife. Orpheus wept for a while longer, because when you’ve wept that long it’s difficult to stop, then took his father’s advice and made his way into the underworld._

_So when he got there…_

_Actually, I’m bored by this. The whole point is that you can’t regain something that you’ve lost. There’s no turning back._

_I’m sick to death of how these stories are all echoes of each other._


	19. Chapter 19

It’s too early. Why am I awake?

            I roll over, blinking, trying to figure out why I’m up. My leg feels fine. I don’t have to pee. There are no loud noises. It’s dark out still. I reach out to grab my phone off the night table.

            6:14. No. There is absolutely no reason why I should be awake this early.

            Except I can feel already that I’m up. I’m awake, and there’s no going back to sleep.

            Which is weird. Usually I’m so tired that I sleep about nine hours. More sometimes. Another reason why I’m so incredibly done with lithium.    

            I drop my phone onto the sheets and pull the blankets up to my chin, burrowing in. It’s still comfortable. Maybe if I just stay like this for awhile I’ll drift off.

            It’s not like I went to sleep early either. I was up until about midnight, I think. Mette asked me to do as much research into shooting permits as I could, so I worked on that for hours. She’s tired of looking like a rookie in front of Frode and Grete, and I said I would do the grunt work. I’m an assistant, after all. It’s my job to do the things other people would probably find boring.

            I don’t find it boring. It has to do with movies, so I could do this all day.

            I did. I stayed up reading until I dropped into bed. I was listening to Nick Cave. _The Lyre of Orpheus_.

            Orpheus and Eurydice.

            I like how he takes established myths and fucks them up. That’s always been something I liked to do too. Like George Miller making a western in a dystopia. Men with no names and few words coming in to save a beleaguered town. Nick Cave is really into westerns, too. I liked _The Proposition._ He did the music for _The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford_ , too. And the book he wrote, the first one, that was good. It was like he snagged his hand through the air and threw whatever gossamer strands he grabbed into a story. Elvis, the Old Testament, rock and roll, the end of days—

            Yeah. I like artists like that, who take the old stories and make them new.

            How do you make Orpheus and Eurydice new?

            Easy. He doesn’t look back.

            Huh.

            Okay. He guides her out of Hades, and he resists the temptation to look back. The story splits and ceases to be just another echo of ‘there’s no going back.’ He succeeds. He brings her back into the world.

            Then what?

            I don’t really care about how he’d feel about it. The story is always told from his perspective. What about Eurydice?

            She wouldn’t be happy, obviously.

            Why obviously?

            I turn onto my back, pushing down the covers. I don’t even have to think about it, really, because the answer is so clear. She died, she was dead. She was where she was supposed to be, and now she’s been brought back into a world where she doesn’t belong. Orpheus didn’t even ask what she wanted, he just went to Hades and Persephone and said, I want her back, like his wife was property, and they treated her like property. Not a person asked what she wanted.

            If they had, would she have said yes? Hades, the place, is never described as being particularly awesome and comfortable, but dead is dead. Hypothetically. I was technically dead but they shocked my heart into working again, so death is sort of a flexible concept. But in a story, an old story, dead was dead. Maybe Eurydice knew where her place was. She died, it was natural, and still they made her walk, compelled her to walk, back into the light, after her eyes had adjusted to the dark.

            So what then?

            What then, Even?

            Did she pretend? Did she act like everything was okay? Yes. She would have. She loved Orpheus, after all. Or no. They had promised until death do them part, and death parted them. They had parted, naturally, and this man had brought her back to where she shouldn’t be.

            So maybe she hated him a little at first. Amidst the confusion, there was a grain of hate. And every day, when she was in the world of the living, it grew stronger.

            What would she do about it?

            Simple. She’d kill herself.

            No. _No_. She would _try_ to kill herself.

            Good. This is good.

            She would try to kill herself, but it wouldn’t work. That’s what it is. Throw herself off a cliff, stick her finger in a socket, take all the pills in the house, step into traffic. And it wouldn’t work. That’s what made it so terrible. She had been expelled from Hades. She had been given back to Orpheus, and that was her curse. She could never die again. Every time, Eurydice would just have to pick herself up once more, understanding a little more that she was doomed to just—stay.

            What would she do? How would she deal with that?

            It comes so quickly that I start to laugh.

            She kills him. She bashes his head in with a rock. If she can’t go back to the underworld, she can send the man who cursed her there. She can finally be parted from him, to live her own sad, awful story, wandering the earth until the world ends and there’s no difference between heaven and earth and hell, and she can finally rest.

            Yeah. Man, I like that. I really like that.

            I can write that. It would probably only take a few hours to get the first draft done. Hell, I could even make it into a comic if I wanted, if I have the patience.

            Okay. I’m up anyways.

            I throw back the sheets and get to my feet, stretching.

            Oh.

            Right.

            Right— _this_.

            It’s the first idea I’ve had for a story in months. The first idea that came together in a minute, without having to worry at it, force it, beg it to happen. Instead, it just came. The way ideas are supposed to.

            I don’t have to sleep as much as I used to.

            It’s working. The lower dose is working.

            I’m so relieved that my eyes start stinging. I cover them with a hand. My throat feels a bit sick. Maybe I’m going to cry. It’s okay if I do. It’s the first time I’ve felt like myself in a year.

            I don’t cry. I take a breath, and go to turn on the lights and find a pen.


	20. Chapter 20

It has been a good day.

            I wrote 4000 words in six hours, which is more than I’ve probably written in the last few weeks. I made the outline on a piece of paper, then sat down with my computer so I could get the words down as quickly as possible. When I was finished, I went to see my mother, who was happy to see me, and who I showed the story to.

            “God, you’re morbid,” she muttered, but she kissed my cheek afterwards and ruffled my hair and said that she loved it, and she had questions about it too. Mom has always encouraged my work, even when she worried that I’d end up destitute because I didn’t have a real job.

            I’m tired, but I don’t really want to sleep. I feel too good! It’s been a long time since I’ve felt—just happy. Happy for no reason, or wait, I do have a reason. I have a reason to be happy. I finished a story. I came up with it and finished it in a few hours. Tomorrow I’ll go back and tighten it up, then leave it for a few days before going back to it.

            Coffee. I need coffee. Not the stuff in my cupboards, but something overpriced and decadent. Most likely with whipped cream. And it has to be at least twelve syllables long.

            Pharmacy first. I left it to the last possible second, and since I’m not sure what the next few days with Mette will be like, I need to take advantage of my free time.

            If things go according to plan, this will be the penultimate prescription. There’s a part of me—a large part—that after the rush of today wants to just say _fuck it_ and stop taking the pills completely. I know that’s a bad idea, though. I’m already putting my head in the lion’s jaws. I don’t need to slap it across the face first.

            I come around the corner. It’s a quiet day, relatively. Not many people out, sky grey and bright. It hasn’t snowed again since that one strange day, but it’s cold enough that I don’t go anywhere without my pea coat and scarf.

            It is a beautiful day.

            When I look across the street and see Isak, I’m not that surprised. West Oslo isn’t huge, and now that I know he’s here, I’ve accepted it as inevitable that I’ll see him again.

            There he is.

            He’s standing at a charging station with a scowl on his face. It’s a bit adorable. You don’t want to think about your most feared ghost doing something adorable, but whenever Isak grimaced it was hard not to smile. It makes him look like a petulant child, even after all these years. He’s struggling with the cord to his car.

            God, I remember teaching him how to drive.

            Shaking his head, Isak smacks the plug with the side of his hand a few times. It’s stuck in the charging station.

            I think of how every morning for two months, every day on my way to class, I’d look down the hall to see if I could spot Isak at his locker. By the end of the first week, he had stuffed it so full that he had to fight with it every single time. If he could get it open at all, the books would come falling out. Most times he couldn’t, and he’d be left trying to break into it with a credit card.

            So I experimented on my own locker until I figured out that the one sure way to open a jammed locker was to give it a single hard pound in the middle. Then I held onto the knowledge until I could find a moment where I needed to look like the coolest person who ever lived.

            I’m just standing here like a weirdo. I need to get to the pharmacy.

            Isak hits the side of the station, and his expression goes from frustration to despair. He puts his hands to his face, digging his fingers into his eyes, turning away. He’s having a bad day.

            I’m halfway across the street before I realize what I’m doing.

            What the fuck _am_ I doing?

            Quick, Even. What are you doing? Figure it out. You need to figure out what you’re doing and why. I shouldn’t be doing this. I should walk in the opposite direction and it would be better if he even saw me do that, because he’d know I don’t want to talk to him or see him.

            Why should I want that?

            Only I’m already across the street. I’m about ten steps away. I stop, and I chew on my lower lip.

            Then he drops his hands and keeps trying.

            Fucking Isak. He might be the most stubborn man I ever knew. I swallow, take a deep breath, then quietly approach from behind.

            When I reach him, I flex my fingers against the handle of my cane, and I say, “Need an adult?”

            He startles, looking up at me. For a second he just stares, then he recovers, glancing back at the charging station. “I think I might.” He raises a brow. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen one.”

            He looks nice. A grey felt jacket, crimson scarf wrapped around his neck a few times. Knit cap pulled down so that his curls stick out. It always drove me crazy when they did that.

            I look at his car. It’s a Model 3 with a few years on it. “Nice car.”

            “Yeah. Yeah, it’s a good car.” Isak gives a derisive glance at the cable. “Except for that fucking thing.”

            “So this is a recurring problem for you.”

            “The prongs are bent, and—look, I know I should take it to a garage. I’m going to. I just have to—“ He frowns so viciously at the station that I have to press my lips together so I don’t smile.

            When I pull myself together, I gesture to the charging station. “Do you mind if I—?”

            Isak steps back, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Be my guest.”

            I take a look at it a moment. Just pulling it won’t work, and hitting it with a hand doesn’t seem any better.

            Ha. Got it.

            I hook the handle of the cane overtop of the plug. Keeping the cane steady with one hand, I pound down on the plug with the butt of my palm, giving it all the force I’ve got. The plug jiggles out a few millimeters, but I smack it from the side too, and it releases.

            I pluck the plug out of the station and hold it out. Isak takes the cord, a strange look on his face. “Thanks,” he says quietly.

            I nod, stepping back. Then, because I can’t help it, I ask, “Do you usually have problems getting stuck in holes?’

            I say it to make him laugh, and he does, snorting and showing his teeth. Isak shakes his head, saying, “You should see me trying to get into them.” He puts a hand to his forehead, eyes closing briefly. “Wow, that makes me sound stupid, doesn’t it.”

            “I’d be more concerned that you’re just holding your cable in the middle of the street like you don’t know what to do with it.”

            Isak lets out a huff, going to tuck away the power cord. “Why are you like this?”

            “Genetics mostly. Blame my ancestors.”

            I step further away, clacking my teeth together a few times. All right—I stopped, I was friendly, I was inappropriate. I’ve done all that could be expected of me. Time to exit.

            Isak turns back to me. “Just passing by?”

            “Mm. Very important things to be done.”

            His eyes narrow. “You—are definitely lying.”

            “I am not! I have to get coffee. It was a long day, and I want coffee.”

            He looks at me a few seconds. “Can—I join you?”

            Fuck, Even, what did you just _do_? You gave him a perfect opening and now that you’re saying nothing, if you try something to get out of it he’ll know you’re lying.

            Who cares? Fuck him. There’s a reason I haven’t seen him in four years.

            I open my mouth, no idea of what will come out, and say, “Sure.”

            Well, shit. I guess this is a thing that’s happening.

            Isak looks momentarily taken aback, before trying to be casual. “Cool. Let me just get my bag.”

            He starts towards the car, and I say, “Shit.”

            “What?”

            Pharmacy. I have to go to the pharmacy. I took the last of my pills today. I always leave it until the last second.

            Isak nods, like he’s unsurprised. “Remembered you have other plans?”

            “No, I—I have an errand I have to run on the way there. Um—can I meet you there? The Starbucks, the one by the glasses place, just around the corner.”

            Isak studies me, then shakes his head. “I think that if I did that, you wouldn’t show up.”

            I raise my brows. The possibility hadn’t occurred to me until he said it. Now it seems like a plausible option. “I’ll be ten minutes,” I say.

            He doesn’t move. “That’s one.”

            It’s like a slap. I want to just walk away—that’s something I can do. I don’t owe him anything. And he has no right to be standing there looking like he’s worried about being hurt.

            “You’re out of practice,” I say flatly. Then I shrug, and step aside, like I’m welcoming him to join me. “You want to come to the pharmacy, be my guest.”

            “Pharmacy.”

            “Lithium,” I say, like it’s a challenge. Or a threat.

            Isak’s eyes clear. He would know how much this is embarrassing me. How touchy I get about people monitoring me, my illness, like I can’t take care of myself.

            He looks down the street, then back at me. “I’ll meet you at Starbucks.”

            I nod, and walk away. I really should just leave him there by himself.

 

I don’t. Fifteen minutes later, I walk through the door, and my eyes find him immediately. He’s sitting at a two-person table by the window, texting. Furrow between his brows.

            I’m not sure why I’m doing this. Looking back leads to tragedy. I’m a student of story. That lesson is written in my blood.

            But the less my system’s saturated by the lithium, the more spontaneous I get. My motives will be a mystery to me.

            I order the largest possible latte I can get. Nothing ridiculous with whipped cream, just a latte. I unwrap my scarf while I wait, stuffing it into my bag. My stomach is a bit upset. No telling if it’s the meds or nervousness. Probably both.

            I haven’t sat down to talk with Isak in so long. Before running into him at Blindern, the last time I saw him was when I woke up in the hospital. And the three months before that—

            Guilt twists my insides, and I think again about how this is a monumentally terrible idea.

            For fuck’s sake. I’ve been putting this off for four years. I just need to get it over with.

            When I walk over to the table, Isak is waiting, both hands wrapped around his cup. “Hey.”

            “Hey.” I set down my drink, then rest my cane against the window. Shedding my jacket, I drape it across the back of the chair, then hook the strap of my bag over it. Anything else I can kill time with? It would appear not. So I sit down, settling in, trying to get as comfortable as possible.

            Isak taps his fingers against his cup. “Sorry about—that. I guess I was kind of…paranoid.”

            “The crazies wearing off on you?” I ask, picking up my drink.

            He rolls his eyes. “Not funny.”

            Where to begin?

            Everything we went through, and the years that came between, and now we have to start this conversation somehow.

            “I saw Eskild.”

            Isak’s mouth twitches. “I heard.” I catch his eye and he tries not to smile. “And how was that?”

            “Uh…about what you’d expect?” We both laugh a little. “He hasn’t changed much. Are you two still close?”

            “Yeah. I mean—we see each other like twice a month. We text. More, now that—did he tell you he just broke up with someone?” I shake my head, and Isak says, “George. They were together—oh, two years? Everything seemed okay, and then—George is moving back to England and Eskild doesn’t want to talk about it.”

            “He doesn’t want to talk about it?”

            “Mm.”

            “Christ, must be bad. What about the rest of your friends? Who’s here, who’s gone?”

            He pauses, and I realize it’s because I said ‘your friends.’ Well, it’s the truth. They were his before I arrived, and his after I was gone. “Ah—Mahdi, he’s good. Working up north. Oil, so he makes a ridiculous amount of money.” Isak suddenly makes a face. “Vilde’s pregnant. Again.”

            “Again? You say that like it’s bad.”

            Isak holds up four fingers. “This will be their fourth.”

            “What?” I yelp. “How? Is that even medically possible?”

            “She was pregnant when they got married. That was, uh—“

            He looks at me, and I get that it was probably soon after I left. “Uh huh.”

            “Anyways, that was the twins. Like a year goes by, she gets pregnant again. Magnus, man, he was like, ‘I’m so happy’ and ‘what the fuck am I going to do’ every five minutes, because they were both in school. Then a couple months after the last one, here she is again.”

            “Have they never heard of condoms?”

            “Apparently not.”

            “So—they’ll be 24 and have four kids.”

            Isak nods. “Yep.”

            “Aren’t you glad you stopped sleeping with women?”

            He cracks up. The lines at the sides of his mouth are a little deeper than I remember. That could be time or my faulty memory.

            “It has nothing to do with that,” Isak insists. “It’s about safety.”

            “I wouldn’t worry much about you anyway. Aren’t you the one who has trouble getting into holes?”

            “You think you’re so funny.”

            “Someone has to. Let’s see—Jonas?”

            “He’s still in Denmark. Um—we moved down to Aarhus together after he and Eva broke up again. He’s getting his Ph.D. right now. He’s coming up for Christmas. Fuck, so is Eva. That’ll be—“ He shudders.

            “All the old ghosts are coming out of the woodwork, huh.”

            Isak doesn’t know how to respond to that. It’s fine. Most wouldn’t.

            “Tell me about you. What you’re doing, what you’ve done.”

            “Do I have to?” he asks, and I smirk. He brushes his hair off his forehead with his fingertips. “I did my degree in biology. Then I got my master’s, and I finished my Ph.D.”

            “Congratulations.”

            “Thanks. And, uh…I got on with NORMENT while I was doing my doctorate, and they just kept me.”

            “Good. That’s good to hear.” He nods, looking down at his cup, and I ask, “You said you’re a researcher?”

            That same pained look as last time. Whatever it is he’s doing, Isak knows I won’t like it. “Yeah.”

            I wait, but he’s not forthcoming, so I prompt. “What are you researching?”

            Isak breathes through his nose and answers, “Mania.”

            Right. I wondered, based on his reluctance. But I hadn’t really let myself consider it. “Okay,” I reply, because what else can I say?

            Isak starts fiddling at his temple with a fingertip. That’s a nervous twitch he never got rid of. When he was anxious, his fingers always went to his upper face—his eyes, his forehead, his hair.

            He raises his eyes and says with abrupt determination, “It’s not only because of us. I need you to—“ Isak shakes his head. “Mom’s had a bad couple of years and I guess I got sick of feeling like I was useless.”

            He’s embarrassed telling me that. He never had a problem talking about bipolar with me, but he was always ashamed to bring up his mother’s illness.

            “How is she now?”

            Isak shrugs. “The world is ending. Second time this year Dad and I had to go out in the middle of the night to get her from the police station in August. She was screaming Bible verses at teenagers coming out of a concert.”

            “Wow.”

            “It’s always the same thing. She’s medicated, she feels better, she thinks she doesn’t need it and goes off and—“ Isak waves a hand. “The cycle repeats itself.”

            Of course.

            “What did I say?”

            I lift my eyes. “Sorry?”

            Isak points at his face. “You got a look. I must have said something.”

            I mull it over a second. Whatever. He’s not my boyfriend. I don’t need his permission for anything. “I’m tapering off my lithium. I’ve been on it a year and I—do not care for it. But I have a good therapist and my mother’s obviously watching me like a hawk, so—“ I shrug. “That is a thing that’s happening.”

            I quietly drink my latte and remind myself as vehemently as I can that his opinion has no effect on my life.

            There’s plenty of silence. Then Isak says, “The side effects getting you?” I nod. “Tired?”

            I lift my massive latte. “It’s four in the afternoon and I need multiple shots of espresso to keep my eyes open. Don’t—I mean, if you were, don’t worry. I know now if I have to be medicated, and if it gets bad, I’ll do what I have to. But—I am done with feeling like this. So.” I put down my drink and lean back. “Enough about that. Back to you, your life. What else is happening?”

            “Uh—not much.”

            “Am I going to have to interrogate you? I’ll do it if I have to.”

            “Do not interrogate me,” Isak mutters.

            “Then tell me things.”

            “There’s nothing. I’m boring.”

            “Seeing anyone?”

            Isak stops, mouth open. “Uh—no.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “I’m not! I just—didn’t expect you to ask that.”

            I shrug. “I always ask my exes if they’re dating. I like to know that they’re happy.” I raise my brows. “Are you happy?”

            “Jesus, that got deep, fast. Am I happy, what kind of question is that?” I laugh and Isak shakes his head at me. “Didn’t you hear? I’m Norwegian, that means I’m one of the happiest people on earth.”

            “So you’re happy.”

            “I’m the happiest,” Isak insists. “Every morning I wake up with a smile on my face. I’m so happy it hurts.”

            “You are still the _worst_ liar.”

            “I am being really sincere right now. Don’t mock me because I’m happy.”

            “You should be ashamed of yourself. Lying when someone asks you a genuine question.”

            “You want to know if I’m happy?”

            “Sure.”

            Isak snorts. “You don’t care.”

            I put a hand to my heart. “Ow. Right there, Isak. Right there.”

            “To answer your ridiculous, insincere question—I’m an average amount of happy. Just a—regular kind of happy. Okay? Will you get off my back now?”

            I arch a brow. “There’s something you never said to me before.”

            He flushes, covering his eyes with a hand, and groans.

            This feels very easy and incredibly difficult at the same time. How can the two co-exist?

            I dated him for three years. I know his rhythms.

            Dropping his hand dramatically, Isak says, “What about you? Are you happy?”

            “Don’t you think happiness is subjective—“

            He balls up a napkin and throws it at me.

           

We talk for a little about how his father remarried, how his stepmother is kind and remarkably understanding about the situation with his mother. We talk about his flat, which is on the fifth floor and gets too hot in the summer. We talk about what he’s listening to—he’s finally managed to expand slightly beyond hip hop.

            Finally, Isak says, “Are we ever going to talk about you?”

            “Why would we do that?”

            “Because you enjoy embarrassing me way too much, and I shouldn’t have to be the only one to suffer like this.”

            “You want me to suffer? Sadist.”

            Isak crosses his arms on the table and fixes his eyes on my face. “Tell me something.”

            “What?”

            “Anything. Tell me something—that you don’t want me to ask you.”

            I smile, shaking my head. “I’m not a kid. You can’t dare me.”

            “Scared?”

            I look at his green eyes, and the answer is a resounding _yes_.

            Inhaling deeply, I flip through the encyclopedia of things I don’t want to talk to him about. After a moment’s thought, I pick the most innocuous. “You called my mother to tell her you’d seen me.”

            Isak’s head drops. “Uh…yeah.”

            “You lied to her. So she’d tell you things.”

            “You lied to me first.”

            “You lied to my _mother_. I—do not appreciate that.”

            Isak looks surprised by the rebuke. I remember how I’d never say a word against him. How I avoided confrontation at all costs because he was so impossibly precious to me.

            “I’m sorry,” he says.

            “Apology accepted.”

            “I thought we were supposed to be talking about you.”

            “We are.”

            “It doesn’t feel like it.” I shrug, having more of my latte. I’m about halfway through. Isak brushes his hair back, and says, “Look, I—I called your mom because I could tell you were pissed. If you still hate me, I’d rather you took it out on me instead of her.”

            I don’t understand.

            “Hate you?”

            Isak has become very interested in the surface of the table. He picks at something I can’t see.

            Aghast, I say, “Isak, I’ve never hated you.”

            He glances at me from under his brows. “You don’t remember?”

            “Remember what?”

            “Like…one of the…last things…you said…”

            I have no idea what he’s talking about. “In the hospital?”

            He nods.

            “Isak,” I say. “I was sick. You know that.” It seems important that he understands. Leaning forward, I reiterate, “You know that.”

            Isak looks at me, miserable with guilt. “Your heart _stopped_ ,” he says softly.

            Like that, most of my sympathy evaporates. Those are the words I tell myself when I need to be angry. Hearing them now is like flipping a switch.

            Sitting back, I say nonchalantly, “That’s what happens when they break.”

            We don’t say anything for a few moments.

 

I’m the one who says something, because we can either sit here in silence or I can get up and leave, and the latter seems too dramatic for the situation.

            “I have a sort-of job, and if I say it one way you won’t believe me. So I’m trying to decide whether to tell you that way or not.”

            Isak glances at me, looking on pins and needles. Fiddling with the lid of his cup, he says, “Assassin?”

            “Please. I’m the least violent person you’ve ever met.”

            “That’s true,” he concedes. Between the two of us, Isak was the one ready to throw down over a slight, and I’d find myself in the bizarre position of being the responsible one. “Astronaut?”

            “I limp, and I think they’re particular about that kind of thing.”

            “Then you should just tell me, because my guesses are apparently awful.”

            I hesitate, and I don’t know why. “I’m working on a movie.” I meet his eyes.

            Isak blinks a few times, then leans forward. “Are you really?”

            My cheeks are a bit warm. I nod, explaining, “My friend Mette—we met in Stockholm, before she came here—she wrote a script, and she’s producing the movie too. I’m working as her assistant. So, I mean, I’m not doing anything really important; I mostly get coffee and do research and keep her company when she does something she doesn’t want to, but everyone working on it has been really sweet. They let me sit in on meetings and things so I can see how things are done. That’s why I was on campus, actually. They were scouting locations, talking to people in the media office.”

            I’m nervous. I want his approval, badly. This is such a mess. All the feelings I have about him will always be a mess.

            “That’s _great_.”

            “It’s…a start.”

            “No, that’s fantastic. You always wanted to make a movie and now you are.”

            “I’ve worked on movies before, but they usually have dolls in them.” I flap a hand. “Well, so did Todd Haynes.”

            “You’re doing that thing where I can’t tell if you’re being humble or not. So I don’t think you are.”

            “Me? I’m incredibly humble.”

            For a moment, I’m certain he’ll say, ‘That’s one,’ and if he does it will irritate me to no end. But after a pause, Isak smiles crookedly. “My mistake.”

            I am three quarters of the way through my drink. Reach the bottom and I can leave. That’s my promise to myself.

            “So—what did you miss about the city?”

            The question catches me off guard. Not in a bad way. I like the question. “Hmm.” I put my arm over the back of the chair, considering it. “The colour of the sky and the water together when you go down to the shore. The way they seem to echo off one another.” I look over at him. “Or did you mean my mother and things like that?”

            Isak raises his shoulders. “Whatever way you wanted to take it,” he says quietly.

            I think some more and grin. “The terrible public art.”

            “What? You traitor.”

            “I mean, I love it. I unironically love it. Anyways, it’s not just us—cities everywhere do it. But our is just—sort of singularly bizarre. You know _Eyes_? In the Tjuvholmen sculpture park?”

            “Uh…”

            Shaking my head, I take out my phone. “You’re so uncultured.” I look up the sculpture over his protests, then turn the phone to show him.

            Isak narrows his eyes. “The tits?”

            I put a hand to my chest in feigned prudery. “Philistine, can’t you tell they’re eyes?”

            “I’m pretty sure I know what tits look like.”

            “You sure?” I ask, slipping my phone away.

            “I’ve got a decent recollection, yes.”

            I run my hand through my hair. “Speaking of public art…I keep thinking about going to Vigeland Park. I haven’t been there in years. I want to.” Snap decision. “Actually, I think I’ll go there after this.”

            Isak bites his lower lip. “Do—you want company?”

            No. No, this has already been far too weird.

            Gently as I’m able, I answer, “I think that’s one for me to do alone.”

            He nods with a small smile, but I know him, and I can recognize the disappointment in his eyes. I’m not sure why it’s there. We were a long time ago. What is it that he wants from me?

            If he’s looking for forgiveness, I’m probably not the right place. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to properly forgive myself.

            I pick up my drink and swallow the last quarter in a few gulps. There. Finished.

            When I put down the cup, Isak asks, “Are you taking off?”

            Thank you for the opening. “Yeah, I’ll head out there before it gets too dark.”

            I push back my chair and pull on my coat and scarf. Now I have to figure out how to finish this encounter. Nice to see you? We should do this again sometime? Which banality am I supposed to have for the situation? I don’t want to say anything wildly untrue— _this was fun, let’s do it again_ —but I don’t want to be unkind either. I don’t want to be a person that’s cruel.

            Isak brushes his hair off his forehead a few times—compulsive—and says, “I’m—glad I ran into you.”

            I smile. “You need to get that car of yours fixed. I won’t be there next time to get you out of a tight spot.”

            He points at me, nodding. “Will do.”

            I pull the strap of my bag over my head, and get my cane. Time to say goodbye and go. “Well—take care—“

            “Wait,” Isak says, getting up. He grabs his bag, pulling out a book and, after a moment’s search, a pen. He flips to the back of the book, scratching something down. Ripping out the page, Isak folds it in half and holds it out to me. It’s a phone number. “You probably don’t have that.” He clears his throat.

            I hesitate before taking it. Taking his number is almost like a promise to see each other again. Either that or I’ll have to make a conscious effort to avoid him.

            But I can’t _not_ take it. That would be too rude, and we broke up four years ago—I can’t be _that_ petty.

            So I take it, looking down at the agenda laying on the table.

            Isak glances at it, and shrugs, with a sheepish smile. “Someone told me I should always have one. In case I needed to write things down.”

            I fold the paper into quarters, nodding. “Sounds like a smart person.”

            Isak just looks at me. I smile slightly, and I walk away, sticking the phone number in my back pocket.


	21. Chapter 21

Okay, I might have spoken too harshly about our public art. For every easily misinterpreted abstract piece, the reply is just: Vigeland Park.

            It really is one of the most extraordinary places on earth. All these figures, with their thick bodies to stand the test of time, each one different from the next. Little, big, the tower—that fucking gorgeous monolith. I mean, there really isn’t another place like it anywhere in the world. I defy anyone to find me another place like it.

            Also, the people fighting lizards—Vigeland had a sense of humour too, which I can appreciate.

            There’s some people out, even though it’s getting dark and a bit cold. It’ll snow again soon, I’m certain of it. A little group is milling around the perennial favourite, that angry toddler. I avoid it. There is plenty to look at here.

            I do a lot of different things. I make shorts, I write, I draw cartoons, I play guitar, I make music. Sculpture, though, is one that I have never been good at. Well—not entirely true. When I was fifteen, I got really into making these stick thin figures out of wire and wrapping plaster around them. My art teacher said they were evocative, and I was proud of them. When I tried to give one to Sonja, though, she said as kindly as she could, “That is fucking terrifying and I think I’d be scared to have it in my room.” And I was fifteen and stupidly in love for the first time, so I took all the sculptures out back and burned them. I’ve never really gone back to sculpting after that.

            I always love looking at things I can’t do. This is so _grand_. I can’t believe that someone was allowed to work on this huge scale, someone with this singular vision, trying to encompass all of life. Not just trying, but succeeding. Look at these beautiful bodies. They’re in ecstatic motion, they’re shy and still, they’re furious, they’re reaching out to each other in adoration. They live, they die. They last forever.

            Extraordinary.

            So many people had a hand in this too. It was Vigeland’s vision, yeah, but he made the models in clay, and then other people carved and cast the actual statues. Granite and bronze. The bronze gets more and more pale as the years go on. He had to know it would do that. I imagine that he thought ahead a hundred years, to what it would look like now. Here we are, and I bet it looks just as he thought it would.

            Or not. It’s kind of silly to anticipate how an audience will interpret and accept your work.

            I stick only to the bridge. I don’t mean to stay too long. It’s been a full day, and it’s not possible to take in the park in one trip. Like always, I find myself drawn to the man lifting up the little boy.

            The man’s stance is wide, and he’s swinging the boy up into the air joyously. It’s a moment of play that anyone would understand. I think that’s real art. When language doesn’t impede your understanding of a thing. Anyone from any corner of the globe could look at this and understand exactly what was happening, would recognize it. That was Vigeland’s genius.

            This is my father’s sculpture. There’s plenty of ones here about fathers and sons, but when I was really young, the same age as the boy, my parents brought me here and Mom took a picture of Dad swinging me up just like the sculpture. Every time we came here, we’d come to this sculpture, and Mom would take a new photo of me and him. I would be a little bigger every time, and Dad’s hair would be a bit thinner. You’d think that it would have stopped when I was a teenager, but it didn’t. I loved my father. I didn’t go through a stage of hating my parents just because it’s what I was supposed to do. By the time I was fourteen, I was as tall as my father, and the year after I was taller. We’d just stand there holding our hands up in the air, smiling for the camera.

            There were no pictures when I was sixteen. Or seventeen. I would have gone for them, but Dad…

            I sigh, looking at the two figures, living for eternity in this perfect moment.

            My parents got back together. I’m glad they did. It made my mother happy. And I understand why Dad did what he did, but it doesn’t make it easier.

            I tell myself that it wasn’t my fault. I mean, the last time we spoke. That I couldn’t have known it would be the last time I’d see him. That’s the thing, though. You never know when it might be the last time with someone.

            Isak was always saying something like that.

            Puffing my hair off my forehead, I lean against the side of the bridge and watch the people going by.

            It went okay. Sitting down with him. Talking. We barely said anything at all, really. We barely mentioned the fact that we used to be the most important people in each other’s worlds. The one moment we got near the fact that our relationship imploded so spectacularly that one of us technically died and then fled the country, we ended up unable to say anything at all.

            I watch people encountering the figures for the first time. There’s one teenage girl by herself, stopping and taking multiple pictures of every single one. I watch a female couple with their daughter holding her by the hands and pointing at things, laughing at whatever she says.

            This is a magical place.

            Him being here makes things really complicated.

            I didn’t expect him to be here. If I had known he was, I would never have come back. I came back to Oslo because I wanted to be close to my mother, because my years in Sweden were so up and down that even I have whiplash from them. I thought it would be good to come back someplace familiar. That it might feel safe.

            Isak being here makes things feel uncertain. I’m used to my life being unpredictable, living constantly on the edge of, _no, I don’t know what happens next_. Except he’s a different kind of…

            I’ve tried not to think about him much. It was easier. The only time I did was when I was manic or depressed and couldn’t help myself. I made that short about him, but Christ knows that was the mania in full swing.

            Being around him is overwhelming. It feels too big. I don’t know how to handle it.

            I’ll talk to Irene about it. We have an appointment tomorrow. I need neutral eyes on this.

            Can I be neutral about this? I told him I’ve never hated him, and I hope that’s not the kind of person I am, but sometimes—I think maybe there were times that I did.

            I’ve always hated myself the most, though. I’ll always be the champion of that game.

            He’s just trying to deal with things too. I need to remember that. He fucked up. But he was twenty. He was twenty, and he had a boyfriend who was very, very sick. I can’t imagine what it was like for him.

            Yeah, well, who’s bothered to imagine what is was like for _me_?

            Fuck, I don’t want to be that person.

            I take out my phone and the piece of paper. No. Bad idea. Bad idea.

            We live in the same city. We have a history. There’s no use pretending anymore like that didn’t happen. I can’t hide forever. Besides, you never know which time will be the last time.

            I put his contact info into my phone, then tuck the piece of paper into my coat pocket. Shaking my head, I wonder what I’m doing, then tap out a message quick as I can.

            ‘Sorry about saying you couldn’t come to the park. I got overwhelmed, but that’s my issue, not yours. Thank you for making me sit down and talk. I’m glad we did.’

            Send.

            Did that. That is...a thing I did.

            Shaking my head, I look up at the statue of the man and boy. “This is your fault,” I tell them.

            My phone vibrates. Cringing, I lift it up.

            ‘Who is this?’

            I grin.

            Biting my lip, I type, ‘Sorry, wrong number.’

            There’s almost a minute until the next text. And I do start to worry that I got the number wrong.

            But Isak finally replies. ‘It’s fine about the park. I know it was weird today. Sorry. I’m not really sure what to do?’ I raise my brows, trying to figure out how to respond to that, when another text comes along. ‘I’m really glad we talked and I’m glad you’re doing so well. I’m happy you’re back.’

            Oh. Okay.

            A third text pops up. ‘See you around?’

            I chew on the end of my thumb. My stomach is fluttering right now. I take a breath then type out, ‘Guess it’s inevitable. We’ve always had a habit of running into each other. So I will see you around.’

            He sends a smiley face.

            It’s so simple, but so are these statues, in a way. Still, it says a million things.

            I groan, shoving my phone away, and tell myself, “You are a disaster.”


	22. Eloise and Abelard/Héloïse and Abélard

_The great love stories usually involve correspondence. A phone call, a parchment, a few words passed through trusted confidante._

_Letters. Endless letters._

_There’s no pair on Earth more known for their love letters than Eloise and Abelard. She was a young woman, and he was her tutor. They fell in love. The kind of love that the great poets would derive inspiration from. In secret, they married, thinking that their happiness could survive all obstacles._

_But her family discovered the secret marriage and separated them. Eloise was sent to be a nun, and Abelard, well—before he was packed off to be a monk, Eloise’s family went to the trouble of chopping off his cocks and balls for what he’d done._

_Once they were in their respective sacred prisons, they sought to reconnect in the only way they could. Though they never saw one another again, they wrote each other countless letters. Sad letters, joyful letters, yearning letters. The years passed and their flame never extinguished, because by words they remained unparted._

_And when they died, they were buried in one grave. To this day, lovers will leave letters there in tribute. That’s the story._

_There are always a lot of different stories._

_Here are the facts: Héloïse was regarded as the most intelligent woman in all of France. Abélard, a philosopher, set out to seduce her for the glory and challenge of it. She rebuffed him. Repeatedly. He managed to convince her uncle to let him tutor Héloïse, though why the most brilliant woman in a nation would need a tutor is beyond me. Her uncle seemed to think it was a good idea, and said sure, what the hell. So Abélard was able to continue his campaign relentlessly and near to his prey._

_Their relationship became sexual, but whether it was consensual or not is up for debate. Héloïse became pregnant, and the boy who was born is barely mentioned afterwards. We know the day of his death, but not the year. So he could have been a child. He could have been an old man. We don’t know. We know that the uncle, finally seeing Abélard for what he was, insisted that he marry Héloïse to soften the family’s shame. Héloïse did not want to be married. Not to the man she had refused until she could not refuse him anymore, not to anyone. But she wasn’t given a choice. So she married Abélard, even as he gave the condition that no one could know. He was worried about what it would do to his reputation._

_Secrets are rarely kept, though. I think we have a complete disconnect between what we think a secret is and what they really are. A secret is supposed to be something unknown, but the second a single person knows of its existence, it ceases to be so. It is known. And people are quick to spread whatever gossip they hear._

_Abélard had Héloïse sent to the convent where she had been raised. He said it was for her safety against the rumors and the anger of the righteous. Her family thought he was just trying to get rid of her. So one night, her uncle and some of his friends broke into Abélard’s house and castrated him. He retreated to an abbey in shame. He insisted that his wife take orders as well. She didn’t want to, but her life had long since ceased to be her own. She did as she was told._

_Then they wrote one another letters._

_Seven. There exist seven letters. And part of them is Héloïse upbraiding Abélard for not speaking to her. He was her husband, after all, and she’d not heard from him in years. Part of the letters is him saying he never loved her. He only wanted her for sex. They talk about Scripture. They talk about monastic life._

_Then eventually they died. Her bones were moved to rest with his, and supposedly they were moved again, but two different cemeteries claim the remains are held there._

_That’s the real story. A messy story about two smart people with differing desires who were tied together across decades by the actions of a few months and years._

_We don’t talk about that, though. We talk about Eloise and Abelard. We talk about the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. We talk about Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Christina Rossetti. It’s not the messy bits that we talk about._

_Instead, we take the story of lovers separated, and the letters they wrote one another. We remember the details we want, and the rest is the occasional academic paper no one will ever read._

_Even our tragedies are softened._

_It bothers me sometimes. But then I remember that the censored versions have given us lines like, ‘Still rebel nature holds out half my heart,’ and I don’t bother feeling bitter._


	23. Chapter 23

My phone starts going off at quarter past 8, and doesn’t really stop after that.

            Mette making sure I know that the time for the meeting with the Lithuanian changed. Of course I know it changed, I’m the one who talked to his secretary about the venue. She’s worried all the time now. I’m glad I’m here. If I wasn’t, I think she would be even more stressed.

            James seeing if I’m going to be in town on Saturday. He’s coming through on his way back to Ireland. I haven’t even gotten out of bed yet, but now I’m awake. Last time I saw James, we were up until the sun rose. That…was a very good night.

            ‘Will be here. Will stretch first,’ I reply.

            He sends a winking face. We work out the details.

            Mette again. She’s forgotten to read my story, which she said she’d get back to me about, but she’s sorry. We make plans to go for lunch. I forget that I was supposed to see my mother for lunch.

            Mom is not happy about me wanting to push back until dinner. ‘What if I have plans?’ she asks.

            ‘It’s fine if you do. We can see each other tomorrow? Really sorry.’

            ‘You’re old enough to be able to (hypothetically) stick to a schedule.’

            She’s worried that I’m getting scatterbrained, that it’s the lower dosage. I’ve just never been good with keeping to dates and times unless they were of the upmost importance. And my idea of ‘utmost importance’ seems to differ a lot from other people’s.

            I’m on my way to the restaurant when Mette texts to say she can’t make it. Frode wants to talk to her about casting. I offer to come along, and she says it’s nothing I need to be there for.

            So I’m on the tram, with suddenly nowhere to be.

            When my phone vibrates, it’s a relief. Then I see who it is.

            I hold it in both of my hands, looking at the name on the screen. Been a few months. I don’t want to pick up. At first I would always pick up, but our conversations were so fucking _sad_.

            It’s his birthday. It’s his birthday and I forgot.

            I close my eyes and answer the call. “Hi.”

            “Hi,” Selma says softly.

            I slouch lower in the seat, having to splay my knees wide. Looking up at the sky above the buildings, I say, “Thinking about him?”

            “You know what today is.”

            “He would have been 32.”

            “Yeah.”

            I don’t say anything, because even though our conversations are sad, I don’t have to pretend to feel anything but sad with her about the whole thing. I don’t have to act like I learned something or I’m working to get past it or I don’t have nightmares. When I don’t speak, I know she understands.

            “Um—sorry. Sorry I haven’t…called since you moved.”

            “It’s okay. How are you doing?”

            “You know.”

            “Any better?”

            “Not really.”

            “You were going to see that person Irene recommended.”

            “I did. It wasn’t…it didn’t work out.”

            “There’s others,” I say, knowing she won’t go see anyone else.

            “Yeah, I know.”

            “How are your parents?”

            She doesn’t reply right away, and I think of my own father. I think of the last things I said to him. How that’s something I don’t get to take back. “About the same,” Selma murmurs.

            “Has your dad talked about him at all?’

            “Not really. Mom is…she’s doing better than I am. She’s the one who can…just get on with things. I try, but…it’s, um…”

            “I know.”

            “Even, I…”

            I rub the back of my head against the plastic at the top of the seat. “You want to hear a story?”

            A few seconds pass before she whispers, “Yeah.”

            I search my memories. It can’t be too big. Anything that reminds her of his illness will make her weep, which she’ll probably do anyways.

            “He’s the only person I ever met who hated kebab,” I say, and Selma starts to laugh softly. “We’d go out on a weekend and party and be idiots, and at the end of the night, when it was time for drunk food, he would be 100% opposed to kebab. I’ve met white supremacists who love kebab. But your brother—not a chance. Doesn’t matter what was in it. He hated it. This one night—we get out of the bar at…Christ, we closed it down. None of us were sober, so nobody was driving, it was just the four or five of us staggering around. And we were starved. Like, I would have killed and eaten one of them if it had been any worse. And right across the street, there was a kebab place. Open 24 hours. It was like the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Then your brother says, ‘I’m not going in there. I go in there, the smell will make me sick.’ Everybody else told him to piss off, but I took his side. The last few times we’d gone out, we had gone for kebab. So I said, okay, look, let’s just walk another block and see what we can find. Everybody whined, but Asvald was happy—you know, for him—and we started walking. Next block, nothing was open. So I said, okay, let’s go one more block. What do we find? Kebab shop. Everybody is complaining, saying they’re just going to get kebab, and I said, ‘fine, you go ahead, we’ll keep going.’ But the girls with us—they were into Asvald and I—“

            “They were not, they were into you.”

            “I’m telling the story, and of course they were into him. He was so charming. How could women not drape themselves over him? Now shush, I’m telling a story. The two girls who were with us were into me and Asvald, and the guy with us…who was it…Ali, right, he was into one of the girls. So they decided to keep going and he decided to keep going. And we just kept walking and walking and walking, and all we could find were kebab shops and finally we weren’t even where the buses ran anymore, and we were starting to get hungover and the sun was coming up and all of a sudden, we were like three blocks from Asvald’s flat. And he says, ‘Well, I’m going home.’ And he just took off and left us there.” I start to laugh, shaking my head. “Ali was yelling after him, and Asvald just flipped him off over his head. Didn’t invite us in or anything, just went home. I laughed so hard I was almost sick. The girls were so _mad_. They didn’t talk to me for like two weeks. Your brother, he thought that was hilarious. But that was just the kind of thing he did.”

            “God, he was such an asshole.”

            “Yeah, but he was ours.”

            “Okay. Okay, thanks, Even.”

            “That’s it?”

            “I think so. For now. Sorry I’m…like this.”

            It breaks my heart to hear her say that. That’s what I’ve wanted to say to most of the people I’ve ever met. “No reason to be sorry. I miss him too. You ever need stories, you know who to call.”

            “Yeah. Okay, take care.”

            “You too, Selma. Bye.”

            I hang up, and look at the phone. For a moment, I consider texting Irene. See if she’s around. See if I can get a session in sooner than next week.

            I’m an adult. I need to be able to handle things. So I stick my phone into my pocket and put my head back, settling in as much as I’m able. It’s not much.

 

When my phone vibrates next, it’s my mother, asking me if I want to go out for dinner instead of staying in. I say yes.

            ‘Where?’

            ‘Malaysian.’

            ‘Where is a Malaysian restaurant?’

            ‘I only know one but it’s expensive. So curry instead?’

            ‘You’re trying to kill your mother. Pick you up or are you coming to me?’

            The tram pulls to a stop. I’ve been on it about an hour now, not going anywhere particular. Just riding for the hell of it. ‘I’ll come to you.’

            ‘See you at 17? Love you!’

            I smile, and send back, ‘See you. Love you!’

            Pretty standard day. But my mother loves me, so there’s that.

            At this point, I can just ride the tram back towards my mother’s. I’ll show up early, which will irritate her—she likes people to come at the time they say—but I might just go lie down in my old room for awhile. I’m not tired, exactly, but I could definitely have a nap.

            My phone shakes in my hand, and I lift it up.

            ‘Not to be creepy, but I can see you.’ The tram pulls away just as I turn my head to look for Isak. My phone vibrates again. ‘Not anymore.’

            I run my teeth over the inside of my bottom lip. Then I type out, ‘That was VERY creepy.’

            ‘Sorry ☹’

            I smile crookedly. ‘Just kidding. Where are you?’

            ‘Walking back to work after lunch.’

            ‘Staring at men in trams?’

            ‘Yes. You caught me.’

            ‘Stalker.’

            ‘Haha very funny.’

            ‘You admitted you were being creepy.’

            ‘I regret messaging you.’

            ‘You should. Now I know you stare at men in trams.’

            ‘How are you?’

            ‘Good.’

            ‘What are you doing?’

            ‘Being stared at by a creeper.’

            ‘Bye.’

            I grin, and type, ‘Okay, bye.’ I put my phone away. I have to bite a little into my smile.


	24. Chapter 24

It was the four of us sitting at the table. It wasn’t the first time the four of us had dinner together. But it was the first time since my parents got back together.

            And it felt…well, I didn’t have the words. That was the problem. Usually I’m the one who keeps a conversation going, the one who asks questions and prompts and smiles. That night, though, I couldn’t seem to make myself do it. I was just eating, speaking when spoken to, but I felt unnerved by myself too.

            I looked across the table for courage. Isak seemed to be waiting for it. He raised his brows a little, silently asking if I was all right. I gave the slightest of shrugs. I didn’t know if I was all right.

            “What are you working on at school?” Dad asked.

            I glanced at him. “Ah—“

            We didn’t look a lot like each other. We were the same height, the same kind of skinny. The only thing about us that was identical was how we smiled. Wide, and if we were really pleased, our eyes would close. But he had a round face, and dark brown hair that was starting to silver and recede.

            Picking up some vegetables, I answered, “Another short. I’m working on it with a classmate.”

            “What’s it about?”

            “She wrote it, so it’s normal. Um, I’m doing a lot of the drawing.” We caught each other’s eyes, and I smiled a little before returning my attention to the food.

            Isak jumped in. “He’s been working with a computer program. The drawings are really different than usual.” I looked at him under my brows. “I mean, the old ones are perfect—“

            “Nice save,” I said.

            He rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

            Mom leaned towards me. “It’s okay to develop as an artist.” I nodded. She reached over, giving my arm a rub. “You okay?” she asked softly.

            “Yeah,” I replied, clearing my throat. “Just—a bit tired.” I coughed again, forcing myself to sit up straighter. “Isak’s the one you should ask about school. He’s doing so well. He’s the brilliant one.”

            He blushed, and said to my parents, “He exaggerates.”

            “I do not. His instructor said he was top of his class.”

            “She did not.”

            “She did.”

            “That’s one.”

            I tilted my head with affectionate exasperation. Isak just grinned, and I felt his foot bump mine under the table.

            “What is that?” Mom asked.

            “What’s what?”

            She motioned her fork between the two of us. “That thing you do, Isak. One what?”

            He just stared at her with an open mouth for a second. My stomach was sinking. My parents had seen me at my absolute worst, worse than anything Isak had ever witnessed, but I still didn’t want to go into it with them.

            Isak busied himself with his food. “Just an inside joke.” He stuffed some meat into his mouth so he wouldn’t have to speak.

            I saw Mom and Dad glance at each other, and I was speaking without exactly knowing why. “You know how I exaggerate. Our rule is I get two tries, and on the third one I have to tell the absolute truth.” I picked up my water glass, sending him a crooked smile. “Or he will be very, very angry at me.”

            The side of Isak’s mouth lifted.

            “Why did we never think of that?” Dad said, and the moment we had almost escaped from returned full force. I hunched my shoulders, and sipped my water. Dad seemed to realize immediately that he’d said the wrong thing and changed the subject. “So school is going okay for you, Isak?”

            Isak nodded. “No complaints.” He glanced at me, and saw I wasn’t going to be able to help. “Um—one of my instructors asked if I wanted to help out with her research over the summer. I’d be going north for a week in July, then helping in her lab. Pay’s not great, but it’s a—foot in the door.”

            He was never the best at making conversation with my parents, especially my father, but he was trying. He was trying his best, and I loved him so much that I hated myself for all he had to do for me.

            I pushed back from the table. “I’ll be right back.”

            Everyone’s eyes snapped to me with worry, and I wanted to shrivel up and fly away. Mom said, “Are you—“

            “Just going to the bathroom,” I said, patting her shoulder as I walked past.

            Once I’d gotten out of the room, I felt like I could breathe again. I bounded up the stairs, and locked myself in the bathroom.

            As soon as I had, I let my head fall against the door and closed my eyes. Resting my arms on top of my head, I rolled to and fro slightly. I had known this night wouldn’t be easy. I hadn’t expected it to fill me with tangles of anxiety.

            _They’re waiting for you downstairs. More than five minutes and they’ll know something is wrong. They probably already know. They’re probably talking about you right now—_

Stop. Stop stop stop.

            I put my hands to my face, forcing myself to take some deep breaths. This wasn’t the end of the world. It was just dinner with my parents. Dropping my hands, I turned to wash my face.

            I’m not sure why it was his razor on the counter that completely undid me. I had seen his coat and boots at the front door, and a book on space—clearly his, Mom only read fiction—resting haphazardly on the coffee table. That hadn’t made me stop in my tracks. But his razor was on the counter. All my mother’s things that I had gotten used to over the years, and now back where it used to be, his razor.

            I reached down for it, and found that my hand was trembling. I picked it up, and saw that there were a few hairs stuck between the blades.

            Why should that bother me so much? He’d been living at the house again for a month. Of course his things would be here. They would be used.

            But it seemed obscene. That it wasn’t all new. That things were just supposed to go back to the way they had been. He was just supposed to fit back into our lives— _my_ life—the way he used to.

            I thought of what they’d think if they saw me standing there with a razor in my hand, even if it had a safety blade, and quickly put it down. I was breathing quickly, unable to help myself.

            I sat down on the closed toilet seat, squeezing my eyes shut. My heart was pounding. I was supposed to be okay. I was supposed to just let all of this happen. Every time I saw my parents, I had to act like this was completely normal. That it didn’t gut me that she’d forgiven him.

            How could she forgive him? I pretended like I had, but how could I?

            I still loved him. I adored my father. I always had. But he’d given up on me. Now he was back, like no time had passed, and I wanted to scream or throw up.

            This was verging into sheer panic. So I did what I always did when things were awful and I was alone. I got out my phone and pulled up my messages from Isak.

            The most recent ones were about dinner tonight. I scrolled through those as fast as I could, giving the screen a few hard strokes with my thumb, then letting the messages come to rest at a random point.

            Isak telling me that he was going to be ten minutes late meeting me at the angel. ‘Sorry gorgeous I will be there soon promise!’

            I scrolled further back.

            ‘Can you make eggs tonight? I really really want eggs. With sour cream. Yes, they are the best that way. Yes, you are the best chef in the world. And I love you. Please make eggs.’

            Further.

            ‘Where are you? Lonely waiting here. Miss your face.’

            ‘I took a great video of you sleeping this morning. You were snoring. This is my revenge for all those times you’ve taken video of me while I’m sleeping.’

            ‘Reminder: last night was. So good. How did I get so lucky to date a sex god?’

            ‘If I have to hear one more fucking word about human anatomy I will DIE. Yours is the only anatomy I’m interested in. 45 more minutes til the angel. Unless you come rescue me before that.’

            ‘Sorry. I’m sorry. I ddin’t mean it. I’m so sorry.’

            ‘STOP TAKING PICTURES OF ME WHILE I SLEEP IT’S WEIRD.’

            ‘I had the best dream about Morocco last night. We need to take a vacation again this year. Where do you want to go? I’ll plan everything. But let’s go.’

            ‘Reminder: I love you.’

            My phone vibrated, telling me I had a message at the bottom. I tapped on the notification.

            Isak was asking, ‘Do we need to leave?’

            I thought about it. My heart was starting to beat a bit slower. I rubbed my thumb along the side of the case, trying to think logically. When I looked over and saw my father’s razor, it was hard to do that.

            Resting my head against the counter, I closed my eyes briefly, then tapped out. ‘No just freaking out a little. Are they being weird?’

            ‘You know me, I don’t think anything is weird.’ It wasn’t exactly reassuring. He didn’t get thrown by a lot anymore, because I’d put him through so much. Another message popped up. ‘They’re just being normal parent weird. We can go if you need to.’

            ‘No. I’ll be down in a second.’

            ‘I’m going to undo my top button. Look at that point you like to look at.’

            I pressed my lips together, smiling a bit. ‘Down in a minute,’ I replied, and put my phone away.

            I got up to wash my hands. I made sure not to look at the razor.

 

When we got through the door, I bent over to take off my shoes, and Isak just draped himself around me from behind. I started to laugh, trapped. “What are you doing?”

            “I’m leaning on you.”

            “I need to take off my shoes.”

            “No. You don’t need to do anything. You just need to let me hold onto you.”

            Shaking my head, I twisted a little as I stood, patting his arms as they went around my waist. “You’re so silly and soft sometimes.” I pushed my shoes off with my toes.

            “Don’t tell anyone. They all think I’m angry and mysterious.” I barked, and Isak said, “What was _that_?”

            “That was me saying absolutely, you are angry and mysterious.”

            I could feel him burrow his face against my back. “Yes. Yes I am.”

            After a moment of standing like that, I said, “You have to let go or we’ll never get to the bed.”

            “Challenge accepted,” Isak replied, swinging me forward.

            I started laughing as we awkwardly went from side to side, further into the apartment. “You don’t have to try this hard. I’m okay.”

            “I don’t know what you mean. I’m angry and mysterious. And a barnacle. You need to respect me as an angry, mysterious barnacle.”

            “Ridiculous,” I said, letting out a yelp as he threw us both down on the bed. We came apart a bit at that, his arm trapped under my back, but I made no effort to let him loose. Our legs tangled together. I let my hand fall on his stomach, finding his eyes in the evening light.

            He rolled towards me, brushing his thumb beside my mouth. “There.” Some days, he’d take a smile as a victory.

            “I really am okay,” I insisted.

            “Sure.” I sighed, and Isak said, “You barely said anything. You. Barely said anything. I mean, I’m only your boyfriend, but I kind of sensed something was—“

            “It’s okay. It’s just weird.”

            “Your dad.” I nodded. Isak thought about it, then said, “I don’t know what I’d do if my parents got back together. It would be fucking crazy.”

            “I guess…it sort of seemed real tonight. For the first time. I mean…” I lifted myself up so that he could reclaim his arm, then turned on my side. He scooted closer, so we could be face to face. “When they told me they were seeing each other again, it was—strange, but it didn’t seem real. I didn’t think it would work. I didn’t think…”

            I pushed my hair away from my face, and Isak said, “What?”

            “I…didn’t think she’d really take him back.”

            We didn’t say anything for a long moment. Isak took my hand, and I watched as he just played with it a moment. He pulled it over to his chest. “Have you…talked to him about this? Just the two of you?”

            “If I had, you would have been the first person I told.”

            “Yeah. I know. I mean—maybe you should?”

            I snorted, and pushed him lightly. “When’s the last time you sat down to talk to your dad about your mom?”

            “Uh—“

            “Yeah.”

            “Do as I say, not as I do?” Isak suggested weakly.

            I linked my fingers through his. Even after over two years together, I couldn’t get enough of touching him. I didn’t know many couples like us. Other relationships, their flame seemed set to a lower flicker as things went on. Not us.

            “He left me,” I said quietly. “Like how…your dad, he left your mom, and he left you in the process, and I think that’s worse. That he left you both. And your mother couldn’t take care of you. That makes me so angry, you know?” I looked at him, and shook my head. “It makes me so angry that anyone would ever hurt you like that.”

            Isak shrugged. “We’re not talking about me right now.”

            “Blah blah blah,” I teased softly, and he let out a single laugh. He moved our hands back towards me, giving another light push. I wasn’t going to get away so easily. I’d started talking and he wasn’t going to let me stop. Not like the old days, when he would be on eggshells. “I mean…I don’t think it’s as bad as what happened to you—“

            “Even, it’s not a contest.”

            “No, I know.”

            “Tell me. Tell me about what happened to you. Not me. I want to know about you, not me. I’m boring.”

            “No you’re not—“

            “Even.”

            I let out a breath. “He…left me. He didn’t leave my mother, he left me. He couldn’t deal with it, so he…I mean, I don’t blame him, if I had a kid who was—“

            “Fuck him. He left you. Don’t make excuses for him.”

            “He’s my father. I have to.”

            “You don’t have to do anything.” He pulled my hand back to him. “Anyone hurts you—you know how any time anyone says something you have to hold me back? You don’t have to apologize for anybody, you don’t have to make excuses. He hurt you. And I like him, I mean, he’s your dad, so I’ll like him, but I also kind of want to punch him in his fucking face.”

            I frowned. “Don’t say that,” I murmured.

            “I get to say the things even you won’t say.”

            “I don’t want to punch my father. I love him.”

            “But he left.”

            “Yeah. He left.” We played a quick game of thumb war, which he let me win. I wrapped my fingers around his. “And now he’s back and it’s all supposed to be…normal.”

            “You don’t have to do anything else. It was fine. You were nice to him. You just didn’t say much. They can’t force you into saying something.”

            “I want to be a good son,” I said quietly. “I want to be a good person.”

            Isak shifted closer, so we were almost nose to nose. “You’re the _best_ person.”

            I didn’t believe him. I didn’t believe most of the compliments he gave me. I still had a hard time believing that he was mine. I knew it, I knew it like I knew how to breathe, but that it was real sometimes came as a shock. If anyone deserved someone like Isak, it definitely wasn’t me.

            Sick me, no one ever knowing what I’d do next.

            Pushing my arm under him, I said, “Come here.”

            I pulled him right on top of me. Isak let out a breath. “I’m going to crush you.”

            “No you won’t. I’m on top of you all the time; do I crush you?”

            I wrapped my arms around him, feeling his weight pressing down on me. When I was on top of Isak, it was different. Usually it was foreplay or for seconds after sex, when I’d fall onto him, like my strings had been cut. I loved how solid he felt. He was still thin, but he worked out, something I had never been bothered with. He could pick me up, even though I was taller than him.

            “It’s different.” He rested his arms on my chest, and his chin on them. “Did I embarrass you by doing the ‘that’s one’ thing?”

            I shook my head. “No. I was embarrassed that I lie so much.”

            “You don’t lie.” I raised a brow, and Isak said stubbornly, “You tell stories.”

            Rubbing his back, I said, “Diplomatic.” I reached up, sliding my fingers into his hair. “Put your head down.”

            Isak did as I asked with a sigh. “Why do you like it so much when I do this?”

            “I just like feeling you, is all.” I wrapped my arms around him, and kissed his hair. I murmured, “You make me feel real.”

            “You make me feel that way too.”

            I smiled, and held him close.


	25. Chapter 25

Tuesday 

 

E: _Quick question?_

I: **Sure.**

E: _What’s the best Korean restaurant downtown?_

I: **I have no idea**

E: _No worries, thanks anyways_

 

Wednesday

 

I: **Are you still looking for a good Korean restaurant?**

E: _Found one! Thanks_

 

Friday

 

I: **I’m sick and I want you to know it’s your fault.**

E: _What_?

I: **You and your stupid Korean restaurant.**

E: _?_

I **: I haven’t had Korean food in years and after your text I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So friends from work and me went for Korean food last night. Now I am sick**.

E: _That is not my fault. That’s your fault. Clearly you didn’t go to the good place where we went last night._

I: **No, clearly I didn’t**.

E: _What did you eat?_

I **: I don’t know. It was sour. I think there was pork?**

E: _You just don’t have a refined palette._

I: **You haven’t apologized for making me sick**.

E: _I’m not going to. This is your own fault._

I: **I couldn’t even go to work today**.

E: _So you’re just looking for someone to feel sorry for you._

E _: I’ll take your silence as a yes._

I: **So I’m stuck at home doing nothing. What are you doing?**

E: _Editing a thing. Drinking too much coffee._

I: **What thing are you editing?**

E: _A story_.

I: **Let me guess. Tragic lovers.**

I **: I’ll take your silence as a yes.**

E: _That’s not ALL I write_.

I **: I know, I’m just kidding.**

I: **Still there**?

E: _Yeah, just had to answer a call. I’ve got a friend coming through the city tomorrow. We’re making plans. Anyways, I write more than tragedies!_

I: **I was just kidding!**

E: _You were not. But I forgive you since I’m pretty sure you’re busy shitting yourself to death._

I: **Thanks for that.**

E: _YOUR FAULT._

E _: You like spicy foods—how can your stomach be upset with Korean food? It’s not really spicy at all._

I: **I think I have food poisoning.**

E: _Gross. Drink lots of water. Don’t get dehydrated_.

I: **Thanks for the concern. Especially since this is your fault**.

E: _It really isn’t. You’re a grown up. You make your own choices._

I: **☹**

E: _Get out of bed, have some water, stop being pitiful. No sympathy for people who eat bad food instead of finding good food._

E: _Still there?_

 

I: **Sorry! Still around?**

I: **Guess not! Hope your story goes well.**

 

E: _Thank you! Just editing_.

I: **What’s it about?**

E: _Not telling you._

I: **Tragic love story.**

E: _NO. It is not._

I: **Okay, sure.**

E: _Fuck off._

I: **Can’t. Too busy dying.**

E: _YOU ARE SO MELODRAMATIC_

I: **Me?!**

E: _Incredibly melodramatic. You should be ashamed. It’s just a little food poisoning. Grow up._

I: **You’re lucky I can’t move or I’d throw up on you**.

I: **If your story isn’t tragic lovers, what is it about?**

E: _There’s lovers but I don’t think it’s tragic_.

I: **It has a happy ending?**

E: _I wouldn’t say that. It’s a satisfying ending_.

 

I: **Can I read it?**

 

I: **Don’t worry, I get that you’re still working on it. Anyways, good luck**.

 

E: _You can read it if you want. What’s your email address?_

 

Saturday

 

I: **I read your story. It was really good. I always liked that you took old stories and things that shouldn’t go together and made them your own. You lied, though. You said it didn’t have tragic lovers, and it did. At least, I think it’s a tragedy. You were always interested in love stories where they die, and they do both still die in the story. You still have your sick sense of humour. I was thinking, she’s not going to kill him, is she? Then she did, and it was like, of course she did.**

I: **Sorry for rambling at you. I really liked the story. I’ve read some of the other ones that you’ve published, and I think it would be really easy for you to publish this one too. Hope that you do! Talk to you later.**

 

Monday

 

E: _Hey, sorry I didn’t get back right away. I had company on the weekend. Glad you liked the story. I’m mostly done, just want to put some polish on it before I start putting it out. If it goes anywhere, I’ll let you know._

I: **Sorry I couldn’t be more constructive. I’ve never been good at literary criticism.**

I: **Did you have fun with your company**?

 

E: _I don’t know, are you sure you really want to hear about him?_

I: **Did not mean it like THAT but I guess I know what you did this weekend.**

E: _Whoops! Sorry, I misread your text. Haha. Sorry?_

I: **Lol. Didn’t ask because I thought it would be weird but since you brought it up is this your boyfriend?**

E: _No, not boyfriend, just a friend from Ireland that works sometimes in Sweden. We get together when he comes through. You would HATE him. He doesn’t like rap._

I: **You’re right, I hate him.**

E: _See? Told you._

I: **I’m kidding. If he’s nice to you it doesn’t matter what music he listens to.**

E: _That’s sweet but he’s not my boyfriend. I don’t really date. The last few years have been pretty up and down. Not interested in dealing with dating on top of that_.

I: **That’s just your excuse to be a player**.

E: _Me? I’m a player? I am OFFENDED._

I: **Yeah right**. **I heard that you ditched Eskild at the club to pick up.**

E: _Remembered that, did you_?

 

I: **At work, got distracted by my boss telling me to do things. Very unreasonable**.

E: _Sure you did_.

I: **What does that mean?**

E: _What about you? Boyfriend?_

 

I: **No boyfriend. Work’s been busy.**

E: _That’s the stupidest excuse. I think YOU’RE the player and you’re making excuses for yourself_.

I: **Ha. I am not.**

E: _I remember that you used to have a reputation_.

I: **When I was 16.**

E: _Once a player, always a player_.

I: **I haven’t been on a date in months.**

E: _Uh huh. ‘Date.’_

I: **You are so obnoxious.**

E: _I’ll assume that’s your way of saying that you missed me._

I: **‘Missed’ is pretty strong**.

E: _Mean._

I: **Sorry, seriously have to go. Boss doesn’t look happy.**

E: _Definitely! Sorry for distracting you._

 

Tuesday

 

I: **Wanted to tell you I’m glad we’re talking.**

 

E: _It is very late at night_.

I: **It’s not even midnight**.

E: _It’s late when you woke up at 5._

I: **Sorry, get some sleep**.

 

Once I’ve dialled, I close my eyes again. The sheets are pulled up over my shoulders, and I am still half asleep. Everything is sort of thick and comfortable.

            The phone picks up. “Hey.”

            “You should know better than to text a man on lithium when it’s dark. The stupid…bell thing woke me up.”

            “Why don’t you have it on vibrate?”

            “I had to get a call earlier. Forgot to change it.”

            “So…why are you calling?”

            “You’re the one who texted me, Isak.”

            “Yeah, but…I didn’t expect you to call. I mean! That’s fine. That’s fine that you called, I just—didn’t expect you to. Um…how are you?”

            “Sleepy.”

            “Sorry, you should really go back to—“

            “I think it’s good that we’re talking. Like you said. I thought I should tell you that.”

            “Oh. Okay.”

            “I know it couldn’t have been easy that I just…left. That we didn’t talk again. I didn’t think we would talk again. But I’m glad that we are. I think that’s good. Don’t you?”

            There’s a pause. “Yes. Yeah, I…yeah. Okay, cool.”

            “That’s all I really had to say. I’m going to get some sleep now. You should too.”

            “I will. Okay—night, Even.”

            “Night, Isak,” I say, and toss the phone onto the floor. I roll over and fall asleep.


	26. Zelda

_Say you’re the life of the party. Say you’re the person that every guy wants to marry and every girl wants to hate and some of the girls want to marry you too and some of the guys hate you because the boys like you best. You’re witty and wild and people tell stories behind your back but not too many because you tell them in front of everyone else first._

_You have plans and you write and every day is a possibility and every day is a boredom too, because nothing ever really changes. You’re the best and the brightest and even that gets old when there’s no one to share it with. The boys who text you all say the same thing, make the same promises, and who gives a shit about them, because not a one of them understands you. They can tell you’re the best, but they don’t realize why._

_They don’t see what’s really special about you._

_He does._

_He leaves you letters and makes promises and you don’t really pick him out from the rest at first because sure, he’s handsome and fun but so are all the others. He asks you to be his, but why would you do that? Why would_ you _of all people agree to belong to someone? You are too big to be contained by one person. They would smother your light. You can’t quite articulate that to yourself—you’re young—but deep down a part of you understands that some of what makes you special will go away if you’re claimed._

_You go from boy to boy and he leaves and you miss him. He wrote you letters when the others only left a few awkward words on your phone. He had plans for himself that weren’t like the others. He told you he wanted to leave this place, be someone, do something, and it isn’t until he’s gone that you realize you believed him._

_So when he comes back and he asks you to marry him, you say yes, even though it’s a fucking stupid idea and you know it. You have to marry someone, because it’s the way it is, and you love him. You realize you love him because he sees what you are. He recognizes your light._

_It doesn’t occur to you how he might drain it._

_You leave the place where you grew up, and you’re no longer a big fish in a small pond, you’re just two fish in a very large ocean and most people would accept that. But not you, and not him. You two are the brightest and the boldest and you will be remembered. You will make the world remember._

_You throw parties and you go to parties and when he tells jokes you laugh loudest and hardest because he’s your husband, and you chose_ him _. These people who become your circle as you travel between continents, trailing stories in your wake, see that he’s something special. You too, of course—you’ve always been special, you always will be—but his are the words the world hears. The world starts to listen._

_So you do what you’ve always done. You move faster and speak quicker than everyone else, you carve out your own space and write your own words. You look across the house you can’t afford because you both spend money before it’s made, and you see him writing too, and he smiles at you, and it’s the two of you. The two of you, the perfect pair, the bright young things who’ll make their mark._

_The world is constantly spinning and the two of you are always at one another’s side and at first it’s so easy to spin with the world. You both drink too much and dance until your feet hurt and hold tight to one another as the earth’s orbit accelerates. The word genius is thrown at his feet and you see that it doesn’t frighten him, that he expects it, and you expect it for him too. You chose_ him _. You would not choose anyone less._

_He asks to take some of your words, and you’re tired and it’s been a long few days—years? Has it been years?—so you say yes as you try to get some sleep. He takes your words, and he removes your name from it, and people call him a genius, and you get drunk and slap him so hard he cuts the inside of his mouth and he slaps you back and you end up fucking on the back porch and falling asleep there as he tells you it’s the both of you forever. You believe him. You love him. He loves you._

_With every word he takes from you, you feel another small piece disappear, so you work frantically to be more of yourself. You get drunker, party frantically, say things no one else would dare. And because he’s yours, he keeps up with you. You both strip naked in the middle of a party, you get on all fours and bark at your guests, you fill yourselves with liquor to the point where you’re breathing it and not air._

_There’s a child, but her name is lost. You’re barely holding onto your own. The world is spinning. You’re trying to grab onto your words, but they’re flying out of your grasp and into his pocket and the world applauds him and they tell stories about you and at least they do that. At least they do that._

_You fuck and you fight and he fucks someone else and you leave and you come back and you fuck someone else and he leaves and comes back and all the while you feel like the world around you is getting darker. You dance until your feet are bloody. He writes until his fingers break. You’re both teetering on the end of an age and you know it but you refuse to accept it. You will both be remembered. You’re a pair, you’re a team, his words are yours and he is your life and together you are the story._

_The world speaks your name and you speak back and people say you’re crazy, that you’re speaking to nothing, but you have to speak. He’s erased your name from your own words, and you hate him for it, but you love him, you love him so, your husband, your man, your partner. They say you’re sick, and they take you away and the voices stop but it’s only for awhile._

_You return to yet another home you can’t afford and you fuck and fight and drink and scream and dance and write and you go insane and he is dying right in front of you and the world says it’s such a pity. Such a talent, slowly going to waste. They no longer say your name._

_You are receding. Your light is flickering._

_You’re sent back to the hospital and you can’t count how many times you’ve been in by now. The age has changed and it’s driven you mad. You’re a person out of your time. You were special, you were the best and brightest, but you gave yourself away. You chose to give yourself away, but you have him, at least. When all is said and done, it will always be you and him._

_You write, because it’s what you’ve always done. You put what there’s left of you into it, struggling up through the currents of your madness, and when you show it to him he’s furious. He says you’ve stolen from him. That you took his words. Your heart breaks for what seems like the millionth time and you change your words and still he says what you’ve written is terrible._

_He leaves. He leaves for good, only you don’t realize it because there’s so little left of you. What you had has been sapped away. You hear that there’s someone else. That he’s chosen someone else, and that there is no more you and him. There is no team, there is no_ us. _There is you._

_Hypothetically. What is left of you?_

_He sends you letters, and you send replies, and you don’t know why you do it. You despise him, but God, you love him so. Even after everything. After everything the two of you did, how could you not?_

_Then he dies._

_You are unmoored. He was your link. You left the world behind to be his, and if he is gone, then there’s no reason to stay. You drift through your own thoughts. You talk to Mary Stuart and the god Apollo. You dream of days past. You cannot connect to what is around you. There is no point._

_You stay in the asylum for the rest of your days. The day you die, you’re locked in a room waiting for electroshock therapy, because they’re going to try and force light back inside you. It doesn’t go exactly as planned. The fire that takes the building is what lights you, and for the last time you burn brightest and hardest._

_What’s left of you is put in the same grave as him. Your name is beneath his. The words on your tomb, whether they were his or yours, no one can say._

_You are remembered for being his wife._


	27. Chapter 27

I couldn’t remember how long I had been up for and when I asked Asvald, he said, “Five years.”

            “Five years?” I touched my hair and felt how greasy it was, and it all made perfect sense. “Yes. Five years. It’s been five years. I can’t experience time in the right way.”

            “It’s subjective.”

            “Yes.”

            “The theory of relativity. Pretty girl—“ Asvald snapped his fingers right in front of my face. “And time moves like that.”

            “Yes yes yes.” I had to lean against the wall. The floor was moving under me. “We’re on the ocean.”

            “What kind of ocean?”

            “The kind that moves.”

            He started stomping on the floor. The sound made my head ache, and I had to put my hands over my ears. “It’s solid! Terra firma, friend, we are on terra firma!”

            “Doesn’t feel like it.” I groaned, propping myself up with a hand. “It’s moving, you just can’t tell, it’s moving—you’re not staying still so you can’t tell that it’s moving!”

            Asvald looked at me in fear. “Well, I’m not going to stop moving then or else we’ll both be on the fucking ocean, won’t we?”

            “Make it stop.”

            “How? How do we make it stop?”

            The idea came to me without any prompting. “Nail it down.”

            He pointed at me, nodding with panic, and ran off, presumably to get nails.

            That’s how we got arrested for disturbing the peace. We refused to let the police in because they were obviously spies—Asvald had told me so—and we drove nails into his apartment floor until three in the morning, when the landlord finally let the police in.

            It was the last time we were arrested together.

 

Isak put himself in front of me, holding up both hands. I hissed in frustration, trying to get through the doorway, but he was blocking me.

            “It’s clean,” he insisted. “Baby, it’s all clean. Top to bottom. I promise. I need you to come to bed—“

            “I’m not tired—“

            “I know you’re not, but even if your brain doesn’t know it, your body needs it. I need you in bed with me.” He put his hands to my sides, green eyes pleading. “Come lie down with me.”

            He didn’t understand. He didn’t know what it was like to have this thing running through my _everything_ at top speed. Laying down wasn’t an option. If I did that, I thought I would shake apart. At least if I did chores, I was doing something productive. It wasn’t crazy to clean. Crazy people don’t take care of things. I was taking care of the house, like I was supposed to.

            “I’ll be another hour—“

            “Even, there’s nothing left to clean.”

            “The ceilings, I can do the ceilings.”

            Isak tugged on my shirt. “They’re fine. They don’t need anything right now. I need you, and you need to sleep.”

            “I don’t, I can’t, I’ll just—I have to do something, if you want to sleep, go sleep—“

            Isak stepped closer, cringing. “I need you, okay? I need this to stop. I need you.”

            All I heard was that he needed me. So I kissed him.

            As soon as I did, I felt him trying to push away, but I didn’t stop. He wanted me, and I had this thing inside, and I wanted him, I _always_ wanted him, so if this was his suggestion, of course I wanted to, of course I was ready.

            “Even, no—“ Isak turned his face away. “Not like that, okay—“

            I didn’t stop trying, running my hands down his back. “You said you need me.”

            “Not like—“

            I grabbed his ass and he shoved me. I slipped. I saw him lunging for me, but it was too late. I hit my head on the doorframe.

            Then I was on the ground, half in the bathroom, half out. My face was right by the bottom of the toilet, and I saw a curly blond hair that I had missed. There were spots in front of my eyes.

            I could hear Isak saying, “Oh fuck oh fuck oh—I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry—“

            His hands gently lifted my head off the floor, but I was too dazed to move. “Why did you do that?” I mumbled.

            He started crying, and it seemed like he was rocking me back and forth, but I knew he was just rocking himself.

 

“Give me my phone,” I demanded.

            My parents glanced at each other, and Dad stepped forward. “Even—“

            I moved around him, going to the kitchen cupboards. “Where did you put it?” I flung the doors open, shoving aside dishes and reaching up above where I couldn’t see. “Where the fuck did you put it?”

            “Even,” Sonja said, “listen—“

            “They took my phone,” I said, slamming the door shut and opening the oven. “They took my phone, I need my phone, I have to call him, I have to explain—“

            “Sweetheart,” Mom said, “just lie down for an hour, okay? Just an hour, and then we’ll give you your phone.”           

            “No! I need it now, I—he doesn’t understand, I have to—“ I turned on Sonja and snapped my fingers. “Give me your phone.”

            She stepped back, shaking her head. She was still wearing her coat and boots. She’d only just walked through the door. “Even, please—“

            I went after her, around the table, and Sonja dodged around it. Dad quickly stepped between the two of us, blocking me from her. We were face to face.

            “Move,” I said. He reached for me, and I slapped his hands down. “ _Move_.”

            “An hour,” he said. “Just lie down—sit down—for an hour—“

            “What are you even doing here?” I laughed. “Why are you in this house? You don’t live here, this is not your problem, _I_ am not your problem—“

            “You’re my son—“

            “No, I am a problem that you don’t want to deal with and no one asked you to be here and you don’t want to be, so get the fuck out of my way. Now.”

            Dad took a deep breath, and shook his head. “Even, I know it’s hard, but listen to me—“

            I vaulted myself over the table, scrambling across to grab Sonja by the arm. “Phone,” I said, focusing solely on her. “I need your phone. Give me your phone.”

            She shook her head. “It wouldn’t matter.”

            “It matters, I have to call him, I have to make him understand—“

            “I told him.”

            I stared at her. “You what?”

            She took a few short breaths. “I told him you’re manic. He knows you’re sick. He knows you don’t really mean it. That you’re just—he understands that you just wanted him because you’re sick.”

            The world dropped out from under me.

            “You jealous bitch,” I rasped.

            “Hey!” Mom barked. “Don’t talk to her like—“

            “I don’t want _you_ ,” I said to Sonja, staring at her without blinking. “I don’t want you, I want him, I want Isak, I don’t want you, I want _him_ , and you’ve ruined it, do you realize that, the only thing I have right now, the only thing that means anything, you took that, you took him away, because I don’t want you, why would you do that, why would you—“

            Dad was trying to pull me away from her, and Sonja choked back a sob. “I told him because it was true, Even. I told him because he shouldn’t—he shouldn’t have to go through what I’ve been through, and you don’t mean it, he’s just another obsession, I won’t let you do this to someone else—“

            “Why are you here?” I shouted at her. “Why are you here, why are—“ I shoved my father away. “Get off me! You don’t live here, you don’t want this, why are you touching me, why are you—“

            Mom tried to take my arms, but I was twisting away from anyone trying to touch me. The world was on fire. Isak knew. He knew, and he thought I didn’t want him. He thought I just wanted him because I was sick, and it wasn’t sick to want him, it was the only thing in my whole fucking life that made any sense, wanting him, and they were taking that away, all of them, they were stealing the only happiness I had.

            “No,” I said, and I started pulling on my hair, tugging it out at the root. “No no no—“

            Dad grabbed my wrists, and I pushed him so hard that he fell against the counter. I grabbed the first thing my hands could find—a glass—and threw it at his head. He dodged in time, and it shattered everywhere.

            I turned to run, but they were grabbing me. All of them, pulling me back, pinning me down, and I was crying so hard that I couldn’t remember how to breathe.

 

When Mom opened the door, I didn’t move. She stood there a moment, then closed it behind her.

            I’d heard them fighting the night before. I hadn’t left my bed in two weeks except to go to the bathroom. Mom would bring in food. The day before, Dad had tried to physically pull me out of the bed. I went limp and he had dragged me into the hallway before Mom saw what he was doing and started screaming at him.

            We didn’t say anything for a moment. Then I whispered, “He’s gone?”

            She nodded, letting out a shuddering breath. “Yeah.”

            I closed my eyes and pressed my face into the pillow.

            I felt her climb onto the bed behind me. She wrapped her arm around me, burying her face against my neck.

            “I’m sorry, Mama.”

            “Shh. This isn’t your fault.”

            “Yes it is.”

            “No,” she said, and kissed behind my ear. “My baby. My bright light. You haven’t done anything wrong. I’ll take care of you. I will always, always take care of you. No one and nothing will ever stop that.”

            “He doesn’t love me,” I whispered, tears slipping down my cheeks.

            “Yes he does. He just doesn’t know what to do. I know what to do. I’ll take care of you.”

            “I want to die—“

            “ _No_. That is not allowed. It’s not allowed, sweetheart. You and me. That’s what we have. I have you, and you have me, and you have Sonja, and we love you so much. Your dad loves you too, he’s just—not equipped to deal with this. So it’ll be you and me and Sonja and your friends—“

            “I don’t have any friends—“

            “Yes you do—“

            “I don’t, you don’t know—I did something—I did something to Mykael and they don’t—they don’t want to be my friends anymore—“

            She pushed the hair back from my forehead. “Then fuck them. If they don’t see how wonderful you are, fuck the lot of them. You and me, my darling. You and me. We’ll start over if we have to. We’ll rebuild the world if we have to. You just can’t leave me, Even. That’s the one thing you’re not allowed to do. You’re not allowed to leave.”

            “I’m so sorry.”

            “Don’t apologize—“

            “I’m sorry I’m like this. I don’t know why I’m like this. I’m so sorry.”

            She burrowed against me, clutching me close, like if she held tight enough I’d stay. “I know you are,” she finally murmured. “I know, sweetheart.”

            I was eighteen and it was the day my father left us.

            I have so many more memories like this. I have so many stories that no one would ever want to hear.


	28. Chapter 28

“Where are you?”

            “Here,” I say automatically.

            Irene arches a brow, and I smile. “I’d be more inclined to believe that if you weren’t looking out that window.”

            “But it’s a beautiful day here.” I sigh, resting my head against the wall. I’m seated on the window sill, the computer balanced on my knees. I lift my hand, parting the translucent curtain a few inches. “The sky’s blue. The stars will be beautiful tonight. Well, maybe not here in the city, but if you drove. Maybe I should rent a car or something. I’d love to get out of here for a few nights. Maybe I’ll drive up to Trondheim, harass Sonja. I keep threatening to.”

            “Are you having trouble focusing?”

            I look at the screen. “No. I don’t think so. I’m just distracted by it being a beautiful day.”

            “In general, do you find that your focus has changed?”

            “For the better, maybe.”

            “How so?”

            “I can narrow in on whatever is in front of me. I wrote that story in a few hours, and it was good. I haven’t written that much so fast in—a year? Since I went on the medication, easily. I feel like—like I can look at something and not drift away. The idea hits and I’m _there_. You always ask me where I go, and now it’s not like I’m a balloon that’s just been let go of, sort of floating off into the sky. I’m in one place, I’m present, in a way that I haven’t been in a long time. It feels _great_.”

            “So why not stay at this dosage?”

            Frowning, I shake my head. “I’m still tired. My stomach gets upset. I’ve lost another kilo. Do I look like I can afford to lose another kilo? No, I want off it altogether.”

            “You went to the doctor last week, right?”

            “Mm, yeah.”

            “What did he say?”

            “That I’m all right.”

            “Is that the entire truth?”

            “He didn’t think my leg was as good as I think it is, but he’s not the one who can feel it. I am. It’s getting better. This time next year, I will not be using the cane. That’s my promise to myself.”

            “It’s good to have goals—“

            My phone buzzes, and I say, “Sorry. Sorry, I forgot to put it on silent.” I take it out, glancing at the screen.

            Huh. It’s Frode. He says, ‘Do u love the new pages as much as I do? Going to get beers later, u in?’

            “Even?”

            I glance up. “Sorry,” I say, putting the phone on Do Not Disturb. I drop it to the window sill and smile at Irene. “Speaking of distracted. That was rude. Apologies.”

            She bounces back in her chair a little. Her hair is getting long enough to tuck behind her ears. I like it. “Why don’t you tell me about your social life?”

            “Full. Well—not like it used to be. I spend a lot of time with Mette, of course, and Frode’s just asked me to go out for drinks later. I have dinner with my mother at least once a week. I face-time with some of the old gang in Stockholm. If I’m really bored, I pick up, but I haven’t been very bored lately. It’s all—“

            You’re leaving something out.

            “Pretty standard,” I say, but my voice sounds flat.

            Irene’s eyes narrow. A country away, and I can see the wrinkle across her forehead. It’s really quite extraordinary, if you think about it. How technology bridges the gaps between space. It really is akin to magic.

            “Anything else?” she asks.

            I rub my hands over my shins. The computer bobs slightly on my knees, but I keep it balanced. Like it’s unimportant, I say, “I’ve been texting with Isak.”

            “Isak. Really.”

            “Yeah. Just chatting.”

            “How often do you chat?”

            “Every other day, maybe.” I think about it, then amend, “The last week it’s been every day.”

            “And how do you feel about that?”

            The question I’ve been avoiding. I don’t want to answer because I don’t want to think about it, but the whole point of Irene is that I have to deal with the things I’d rather not. It isn’t healthy to refuse to confront things, just because they’re difficult.

            Or so I’ve been told.

            “I don’t know,” I say honestly.

            “Is there anyone else that you talk to every day?”

            “My mother, but I actually talk to her. Him, it’s just texting. Mostly. We’ve only spoken on the phone…twice?”

            “What do you talk about?”

            “We just chat. Not about anything important. Like about—work, or a movie I’ve seen, or something I did with Mette, or something weird he saw out on the street. It’s just…mostly small talk, really.”

            “You two sat down for coffee a few weeks ago, didn’t you.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Have you had another talk like that? A serious one?”

            I shake my head, scratching behind my ear. “Honestly, we don’t even really mention the fact that we dated. We sort of…avoid that.”

            “But you feel compelled to keep in touch with him.”

            “No—I mean, most of the time, he texts me first. I do sometimes, but he probably texts me first, I don’t know, two thirds of the time.” I frown, rubbing my shin.

            “You don’t want to talk about this.”

            “We’re here to talk about things I don’t want to talk about. It’s fine, I just…I’m never comfortable talking about him.”

            “You had a lot of guilt about how things went with him. A lot of anger too.”

            I make a small noise.

            “He obviously wants to talk to you. If he’s initiating most of these conversations. He probably wants to have a serious talk with you. He may not know how to ask for that.”

            After a few seconds, I nod. “I know he does,” I say quietly.

            “Have you thought of how that would go?”

            “I know how it would go.”

            “Okay. How would it go?”

            “Badly.”

            “Do you want to elaborate on that?”

            With a frustrated sigh, I pull my legs underneath myself, lifting the laptop until I can settle. “I think that if I started, I’d start screaming, and I don’t want to be a person who screams. I don’t want to be that person. The only time I lose my temper like that is when I’m sick and I’m not sick right now, I’m doing really well and—I don’t feel a real need to rock the boat. You know what I mean?”

            “I do, and you know that you two can go on making small talk for as long as you like, but at some point you’ll have to accept the fact that it’s an inevitable conversation. If you keep in contact with him, if you respect him, you’ll need to really get into it with him. What happened between the two of you.”

            I shudder.

            “Not appealing, I know. But you keep talking to him. So…”

            “Well, I don’t always know why I do the things I do.”

            “Do you still have feelings for him?”

            “Not like that,” I say immediately.

            “That was a quick response.”

            “Because I want to be clear. It’s…it’s easy to talk to him. He understands…my rhythms. We were together for three years. He’s—funny, he’s smart, he’s fun to talk to. We like a lot of the same things. He understands what I mean when I speak. I don’t have to explain every little thing for him to know what I’m talking about. I haven’t really had someone to talk to like that since—since Asvald and I fell out. And this is—it’s not like that, it’s not like we’re close, he’s just—someone I can talk to who understands. I don’t need to examine that any closer. At least not now.”

            Irene studies me a moment, then nods. “All right. So? What should we examine?”

            “Oh God. There’s a never-ending list, isn’t there.”

            “Well, let’s start at the top, shall we?”

 

When the computer is closed, I pick my phone back up. My stomach is unsettled. It’ll be good to go out tonight and just have some beers and listen to Frode tell stories.

            ‘Glad you love the new pages,’ I fake. ‘What time you want to go out?’

            I get up, stretching, and it takes a minute for him to get back. ’21 good? Can u get hold of Mette? She’s not picking up &I want to ask about something.’

            ‘She’s in rehearsals. Can I help with anything?’

            ‘The new pages are awesome but I’m wondering about some of the wording? I really like the scene but I’m not sure if it makes Anders too unsympathetic. Do you know what I mean?’

            New scene. She didn’t say anything about a new scene.

            Bad feeling.

            ‘Can you send them to me? I have them on a USB but it’s at home.’

            ‘Sure, sending them over. Look at it and tell me what you think? Anyway! Where do you want to go?’

            My phone pings with the email. It’s forwarded from Mette. ‘You pick,’ I reply, and go to turn on some music. I open the attachment. I should think about food. I’m not hungry, but like I told Irene, I can’t afford to lose any more weight.

            Wait.

            Oh.

            This sounds very familiar.

 

After trying to get Mette on the phone for an hour, I finally just head over there.

            I walk into the theater, where they’re rehearsing a gender reversed _The Taming of the Shrew_. Mette’s in the front row. I can tell it’s her by her hair. She leans over to murmur something to the person beside her. I don’t know him.

            I go right up to the front, and the guy next to her sees me first. Mette glances over, and her face falls.

            “I’ll be a couple minutes,” she murmurs, then gets to her feet.

            I walk back up the aisle, out of earshot of everyone. I’m trying to be calm. This is what calm looks like. If I look calm, maybe I’ll be calm. That’s how it works. That could be how it works.

            Mette stands in front of me, slipping her hands in her pockets. “I’m—guessing you got the new pages.”

            “Take my name off of the movie,” I say.

            “What?”

            “Take my name off of this—thing. I don’t want anything to do with it. And I do not want anything to do with you.”

            Her jaw drops. “Even—“

            “What were you thinking? What part of you thought this would be okay?”

            She puts her hands over her mouth a moment, then says, “Let me explain—“

            “No. You knew what you were doing, which is why you didn’t tell me. Your story mattered more to you than our friendship, than what it would do to me. You’re more interested in making a compelling story than being my friend? Good job. Mission accomplished. Take my name off this fucking thing, and best of luck with the rest of your life.”

            I turn to walk away.

            I get four steps before she grabs my arm, getting in front of me. I don’t say anything or try to move. If I do, I will be angry. I need to keep everything tight and close, so no one sees what’s happening inside of me. I am not a person who yells. I only yell when I’m sick, and I am not sick.

            Mette doesn’t look me in the eyes. “Even—look, I know it was shitty, but the story needed—it needed something more, I needed to shade in the character some more and—“

            “It is word for word what I said to you that night. But only what I said to you. Not the things you told me. Not the things you confessed to me. It’s all just my life out there for people to see. You’re stealing my story. You’re taking the worst of my life and using it to entertain people. That’s not shitty, Mette. That is the final straw. When you wanted to include me in this, when it was just someone who was inspired by me, I could let things slide, but this—these are literally the words out of my mouth, the things that _happened_ to me.”

            “I’m sorry—“

            “The night we got arrested for putting nails in the floor? You think that’s a funny story? He was dead less than a year after that, and I watched. I watched him die, I saw him in pieces, and you used him like some toss away thing, some nameless person in a script just to shade in your protagonist. He had a name, and he was my friend, and you knew him too, how could you do that to him—“

            Mette lifts her eyes and says helplessly, “It’s a good story.”

            I raise my brows. “A good story. A good story. That’s what I am to you. Me, that’s just a spring for you to tap whenever inspiration runs dry. Is that what you’re telling me?”

            “No—Even, I know I’ve gone pretty far here—“

            “The time I threw a glass at my father? The day he left and I tried to kill myself after my mother begged me not to? That’s material for you? That’s what it is?”

            “I can—Even, I can change the details, I just—“

            “When Isak shoved me and I hit my head. Now that’s in your fucking script, only it’s a guy grabbing a girl, trying to fuck her, and she shoves him and he hits his head, and I look like a fucking sexual predator. And Frode asks me if it makes the protagonist look unsympathetic. That’s what you think of me. Something I did when I was manic and that I am so ashamed of that I could puke, and you’re using it to give your stupid character dimensions.”

            “Yes—yes, I’ve fucked this up again, I don’t know why I keep doing this—“

            “I know why. It’s because you’re not my friend. You’re a thief, trying to take my story. You can’t have it. You want to make some bipolar antihero in your ridiculous, pretentious indie film that six people will see and jerk off over? Please be my guest. But I’m not having a thing to do with it. Fuck yourself, and if I see my name anywhere near this thing, I’ll find a lawyer.”

            I try to leave, and Mette says, “Even, we can work this out—“

            I push her aside with my cane and say, “You’re ruining my dramatic exit.”

            I leave. I’m impressed that I haven’t yelled.

 

I throw Mette under the bus. I text Frode and tell him that yes, it makes Anders look incredibly unsympathetic, and I should know, because Mette just stole a bunch of stories that I told her about myself, and I am so mortified that I kind of want to walk into traffic.

            He texts back, ‘HOLY FUCK. Never mind. Scene is cut.’

            ‘I appreciate that. Not working on the movie anymore. Don’t want my name in the credits. Too embarrassed.’

            ‘No! I understand you’re mad, but let’s talk about this.’

            ‘Too pissed to talk right now. Another time?’

            ‘Talk soon. Gonna have a talk with the others. Sorry, this sucks.’

            ‘No kidding. Later.’

            I just come to a stop. It’s cold and I can see my breath. There’s a little snow on the ground, but not much. Christ, what a mess.

            It’s _my_ story. I should have never let her take as much as she did. It is my story and no one else’s. I can’t let anyone do this to me again. It’s awful and funny and fucked up but it’s _mine_. My story is just about the only thing I’ll ever have.

            I smell food. I look over. Kebab.

            “She’d fuck you over for the chance to direct regional theater,” Asvald said to me once about Mette. I laughed at him. Said he shouldn’t be jealous that I had other friends.

            I miss him. He didn’t lie to me. He didn’t use me.

            That’s what I told myself when I got in the car.

            My phone buzzes, and I don’t want to deal with it. So instead I just start walking again. Coffee. Coffee, and maybe a beer. I’ll play my guitar.

            I’ll figure out what’s next.

            Fuck, why do I always have to figure out what’s next?

            The stupid phone is vibrating again. If it’s Mette, I just want to delete everything related to her. I want to forget that I was naïve enough to let another person lay their hands on my story.

            It’s not Mette. It’s Isak. His first text says, ‘My officemate has been playing the same Black Sabbath song for an hour. I AM IN HELL.’ The next text reads, ‘Never mind. He’s playing Euronymous. He’s probably going to set something on fire.’

            Why are we texting? What do I want from him? What does he want from me? People always want things. I don’t understand my reasons but I understand that I must have them. Four years, he was the last person in the world I wanted to talk to. So why am I?

            I want to talk to him. Badly.

            I call him. I move to the other side of the sidewalk, out of the way, and close my eyes.

            He picks up on the second ring. “Hi.”

            “Hey.”

            There’s a pause, then he asks, “Everything okay?” He can tell. Even after all this time, he can still tell.

            I’m squeezing my cane so tight that my hand hurts. “I’m having a bad day,” I say levelly.

            “Okay. Is there anything I can do?”

            No hesitation there. Not acting like anything is wrong with me having a bad day. Just accepting it as a thing that happens, not as a crisis to fix. Not making me feel like a freak.

            I list the first five Hitchcock films in my head.

            “Are you doing anything tonight?”

            “No. Do—you want to do something?”

            I open my eyes. The sky is still blue, but we’re in the city. “Can we go for a drive? I want to see the stars without all these lights. Would you be up for that?”

            I hear someone speaking in the background. Isak says, “Yeah, that sounds good. I can come pick you up. Give me about three hours to get out of here?”

            “Yeah. Sounds good.”

            “You’ll have to give me your address.”

            “I’ll text it to you.”

            “Okay.”

            “I’ll let you get back to work.”

            “If anything comes up, let me know.”

            “Yeah. Thank you, Isak.”

            “Any time,” he says, and I can’t reply.

            I can’t reply because I don’t know if I hate him or if pieces of me will always love him. I don’t know if I want to hold him tight or shake him apart at the seams.

            So I just say, “See you later,” and I hang up.

            I need to figure out what I’m doing. Because he’s not just some random person. This is Isak. This is the boy who made my heart stop.

            He’s the boy who couldn’t hold his breath under water.


	29. The Boy Who Couldn't Hold His Breath Under Water

_There once was a boy who lived in a world of black and white and grey. He didn’t know that the world was only black and white and grey. When a thing is all you know, there are no words like ‘only.’_

_He lived as he should, spoke as he should, acted as he should, and no one thought he was different than the rest. However, he knew. Sometimes he would look towards the horizon, and he would wonder what lay beyond. It wasn’t the way of his people to wonder, though. So he kept his thoughts to himself._

_One day he woke to go to class, and as he walked, he saw a light on the horizon. He looked to see if anyone else had noticed, but he was the only one. The boy hesitated._

_Then he turned from the path and followed the light._

_He walked over hills and plains, never quite finding the light. Around him, though, the world changed ever so slightly. There were trees he could not name, and flowers he had never seen before. He walked through grass that came all the way up to his waist, and sometimes it had the faintest shades of green, reflected by his eyes._

_The boy walked and walked, until he came to the top of one last hill. He could barely comprehend what he had found. Before him, in its endless glory, lay the sea._

_He had never seen so much colour. The water was a thousand shades of blue, never staying still. He was scared. This was not the world he knew. It was not the world he had been taught._

_He turned to run, but something in the water caught his eye. A hand had breached the surface. It waved to him._

_The boy paused. He waved back, then turned and ran for home._

_He tried to live as he was expected to live. But his dreams were haunted by the colour of the sea, and the single hand, greeting him, calling him._

_His attempts to stay away could only last so long. It seemed like hardly any time had passed at all, and he was leaving the path, heading back towards that terrible, vast thing he’d seen in his dreams. The whole time he walked, he tried to convince himself that he was prepared for what he’d find, but how could he be?_

_When he reached the sea, he walked down to where the water met the sand. He struggled to be brave._

_The hand came out of the water again, waving to him. The boy waved back._

_Before him, the sea suddenly parted. It opened into a valley between the water. The boy stayed where he was, too frightened to go forward._

_But as he looked, he saw that at the end of this rift was another boy. The boy floated in the water, rippling with the blue of the sea. The boy in the water waved again, and the boy on the land waved back._

_The boy in the water beckoned him forward. The boy on the land was scared, but he had come so far. He had come to see what the water held. So he walked onto the path that had been lain for him._

_When he reached the boy in the water, the stranger smiled. The boy in the water swam and dove for joy of a new face, and the boy from the land watched, amazed, at this singular creature._

_Then the boy in the water sang for the boy from the land._

_The boy from the land would journey from his home to the sea, and each time the boy in the water would greet him. The boy in the water would sing, and the boy from the land would draw pictures, and they learned one another’s stories. The boy in the water would call for the boy from the land to join him in the ocean, but the boy from the land was too afraid. He didn’t know how to swim._

_The boy in the water promised to teach him. But the boy from the land was afraid._

_Until the day came that he wanted to be with the boy more than he feared the sea._

_The boy from the land put aside his things, and walked down the path that had been made for him. At the end, the boy in the water waited for him, singing his song. When he came to the end, the boy from the land swallowed, then reached into the sea._

_His hands were taken by the boy in the water, and he was pulled inside._

_And for a moment, it was two boys in the water, and when they kissed, it tasted like salt, and the entire world was blue. The entire world was in colour, and there was nothing but water and mouths and the sense of being where one belonged._

_The boy realized he couldn’t breathe._

_He began to thrash, and the boy from the water quickly pushed him back onto the path. The boy from the land gasped for breath, and the boy in the water floated in front of him, afraid._

_The boy from the land didn’t understand. They didn’t look so different. How could one of them breathe under water, and one of them could not?_

_He beckoned for the boy in the water to step out of the sea. But the other boy shook his head. He opened his chest, showing the heart that lay within. It was made of waves. It was bluer than even the sea itself._

_They were stuck, not so different, but a world apart, separated by centimeters._

_The boy in the water reached out his hand, and the boy from the land took it. They met at the wall of water, each on their own side._

_The boy from the land continued his journey back and forth, but he grew increasingly heartsick. He tried going back in the ocean, but every time he did, within seconds the water would work its way into his lungs. The boy in the water would push him out of the sea every time, finally trying to keep the boy from the land from even entering the water. He could not bear to see the boy from the land hurt so._

_People asked the boy where he went to. He could not explain._

_They told stories behind his back. He heard them nonetheless._

_He began to wonder why the boy in the water would not even try to step onto land. Every time, the boy from the land would walk into the water, knowing what was coming, but needing to try nonetheless. A person could learn to hold their breath. Could a person not learn to breathe?_

_Once he thought it, he could not stop thinking it. He tried to lure the boy in the water onto land, but the boy would open his chest, and show his heart of waves, and he would not leave the water. The boy from the land felt his love begin to be tempered by bitterness._

_He had tried. He had pretended not to hear the whispers of others. The boy in the water had no reason not to leave the sea. He was just being selfish._

_It was a poison in his heart that slowly spread._

_But still he loved. Still he wanted to be with the boy in the sea. So he went down to the shore, and he did not take the path the boy had laid for him._

_The boy in the water shook his head, and the boy on the land was overcome with anger. In that moment, he made a promise. If his effort was not matched, he would never return to the sea. The boy in the water tried to show him his heart, but the boy on the land was not swayed. He turned to walk away, forever._

_He heard the water part, and when he turned, he found the boy in the water had stepped onto the path. He looked terrified. The boy on the land did not go for him. He simply held out his hands, waiting for his love to come to him._

_The boy from the water took a few steps, and suddenly opened his mouth. Water spilled from it. Water spilled from his eyes. A bluer blue than even the ocean. The boy from the water reached for his chest, and the boy from the land saw that the tides of his heart were receding. They were disappearing._

_Realizing what was happening, the boy from the land ran down the path, but the waves were already crashing in. He grabbed for his love, but the water took him. The water took them both._

_The boy from the land fought the ocean, but it dragged the lifeless body of the boy from the sea down into the deeps. The boy from the land tried to swim after him, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t breathe. He fought and fought, but there is no reclaiming a heart once it’s stopped._

_And still he could not hold his breath under water._


	30. Chapter 30

We’re not that far outside the city when I realize what I’ve done.

            Isak seems to know where he’s going, taking us off the main road. Things go dark around us, and the trees seem to close in, and I think I might have made a mistake.

            I fidget with my hands, tension building up the sides of my neck. I haven’t been anywhere so dark in months. He’s driving steadily, and not too fast, but my heart starts beating too quick.

            Swallowing, I say, “We really don’t need to go that far. I just want to see the stars.”

            “There’s a place I go to sometimes. It’s about another fifteen minutes.” He glances over. “Doing all right?”

            I nod, nonchalant. “Uh huh.”

            “We could pull off anywhere, it doesn’t matter to me—“

            “No, if you have a spot, that’s good.” It’s my music playing from the stereo. I put on Sigur Ros because that seemed like good stargazing music, but it’s not helping with my anxiety. I think about putting on something louder—my heart says Public Enemy—but I wonder if loud music will make it seem even more like that night.

            “It’s fine if you changed your mind—“

            “No,” I say emphatically. The car goes silent a moment. I can feel the concern vibrating off him. This is all so fucking weird. “Did I ever tell you about the time we went camping out here when I was nine?”

            “If you did, I’ve forgotten.”

            “It’s a good story,” I say, and I’m trying to convince myself.

 

When the car stops, I immediately shove the door open, even before I get my seatbelt off. I push myself out of the car, grabbing onto the top of the door to hold myself up.

            Deep breaths. Just take deep breaths.

            _The Orchid Gardener. Images of Liberation. The Element of Crime. Epidemic._

Once my heart stops pounding in my ears, I lift my head and inhale the cold air. “This is nice.”

            We’ve turned off the road onto a little ledge. It overlooks a forest, but it’s mostly lost in the dark. The night sky has revealed itself overhead. So big that I should be terrified. Isak was always the one enamoured by infinity; it made me feel even more insignificant. Right now I’m just glad for the distraction.

            Isak has turned off the car. He’s standing on the other side, in his felt grey coat and red scarf and curls sticking out under his cap. “Is my driving really that bad?” he jokes.

            I shake my head. Now that I’m out of the car, I don’t feel the overwhelming urge to shove it all down inside. “I started thinking about the accident and panicked.”

            “Oh.”

            I shut the door, and walk around to the hood. Perching on the side of it, I swing my legs around, then lie back against the windshield.

            I hear one of the doors open and close, then Isak joins me on the hood. He sits though, his legs pulled up underneath himself. He has a thermos of something. When he sees me looking, he says, “Just tea. I didn’t think you’d want to drive with me after I’d had a few beers.”

            “Good call.”

            “Are you comfortable like that?”

            “More than I was in the car, yeah.”

            “I didn’t really think about that. I’m sorry.”

            “There’s no way you could have known. I haven’t told you anything about it.” I shake my head. “That’s not an opportunity for you to ask about it, I’m just stating a fact. Hey—thanks for coming out here. I needed to get out of the city for a few hours.”

            “You said you were having a bad day?”

            “Eh, my bad days are boring. Tell me about your day.”

            Isak shrugs, unscrewing the top of the thermos. “I went to work, I came home and made tea, I came to pick you up. My life’s pretty boring.”

            “What are you working on?”

            He ducks his head. “Um…” He pours himself some tea. I can’t help but smile a little at that. Isak, of all people, taking tea with him on a Friday night instead of the first beer he could lay his hands on.

            “You can tell me. I won’t be offended.”

            “We’re…looking at how to best move through the blood/brain barrier to deliver medication. We developed this nasal spray that works pretty well a few years back, but it’s the same story as every other medication on the market. Side effects.”

            “So—like, do you actually work with manic people? Or is it just chemistry and bodies and things like that?”

            “I interview them. I help run studies. I actually speak to people. Which is not what I imagined I’d be doing, but—“ He shrugs.

            “What did you want to be? Before all of us crazy people changed your life?”

            Isak makes a face. “Nobody made me do anything I didn’t want to.” He catches my eyes, then concedes, “That’s not exactly true. But—I mean, when I was just getting my degree in biology, I didn’t know what the hell I was going to do with it. It was just something that interested me. Well, I was always really interested in astrophysics, but my math is—you know.”

            “It’s still a million times better than mine.”

            “Yeah, but that’s easy.”

            “Shut the fuck up,” I laugh.

            “So focusing on mental illness, it just seemed like it was supposed to happen after awhile. After everything, and my mother, and I just needed to do something to sort of make sense of everything. And that’s why I ended up at NORMENT. But Christ, I’m only 24. If I decide to do something else, it’s not like there’s anything stopping me. Give it a few years, see if there’s something else, or if I suddenly become really good at math.”

            “Do you like the work?”

            “Yeah. Does it…does it bother you, that that’s what I do?”

            I scratch at my chin a little, considering the stars. I could say no, because that would be the polite thing, but I didn’t come out here to lie. “A bit. It makes me feel bad, a little. Sorry.”

            “No, I…know it’s weird. It must be weird for you.”

            “Like, I didn’t think there’d be anything left of me in your life.”

            Isak screws up his face. “What do you mean?”

            “When we were done, I figured you would just…I didn’t think that four years later, there’d be something about me that effected where you ended up, I guess.”

            He doesn’t like that I said that. Shaking his head, Isak mutters, “That’s—like I was just going to _forget_ —“

            “I didn’t mean it like that—“

            “How did you mean it?”

            Deep breath. “I’m not saying I didn’t think you’d be sad. I just thought that after enough time, I’d disappear.”

            “Why? Is that what I did for you?”

            Hesitating, I say, “No.”

            “Then why should it be different for me?”

            “Because I’m bipolar and I obsess about things, and you were one of those things. I don’t know. I’ve never been a sane person, Isak, I don’t know what it’s like for people like you.”

            “It’s like you’re saying…”

            “What?”

            Shoulders hunched, Isak gives his head another shake. “It’s like you’re saying you loved me more,” he says softly.

            I don’t say anything. I carve out constellations of my own creation. An hourglass. I don’t understand why people think it’s the shape of a man; it’s obviously an hourglass. When were hourglasses created? Is that why they didn’t call it The Hourglass?

            I feel Isak’s eyes on me. “Do you think you did?” he asks, and I hear the disbelief edging his voice.

            After a second, I say, “I think we loved each other in a different way.”

            “That’s just some stupid way of saying yes. Are you kidding?”

            “Isak—“

            “Whatever.”

            I pound my head back against the windshield a few times. He’s not looking at me. Guess we’re having that serious conversation Irene warned me about. “I think we loved each other in different ways,” I repeat. “I don’t know what it’s like for you, and you can’t know what it was like for me. I’m not saying one is better or worse. I’m just saying different.”

            “You’re saying you thought I’d just move on, like it didn’t matter—“

            “I don’t know what I’m saying, Isak.” I sit up. Pulling my leg close to my body, I wrap my hand around where the bone went through the skin. “I’ve only had to think about what I thought about it for four years. I just…it was easier to think that I hadn’t…wrecked you or something.”

            “I’m not wrecked. I’m _fine_. My life is fine, my life is good, I’m not saying it isn’t.”

            “Then what are you saying?”

            He’s gazing down at the snow, instead of up at infinity. I would prefer he look up. “What we had was special. And it changed me. That’s not a bad thing. That’s what I’m saying.”

            “Oh. Okay.”

            “And—other things.” He digs his fingertips into the corner of his eye. “I don’t know.”

            I flex my fingers against my scar. It echoes back at me with a low ache. “So I was talking to my therapist, and she said that you and I should talk about what happened. No, that’s a really passive way to put it. She suggested that it was a good idea, and I find it not an easy thought, but I don’t know if that’s selfish. Because if you want to talk, we can talk. About—when we were together. When we broke up. If that’s something you need to do.”

            Isak doesn’t move for a long moment. He stares at the snow, and maybe he would look blank to someone else, but I know he’s thinking.

            His eyelids briefly flutter, and he says, “We didn’t break up. You _left_ me.”

            My jaw drops and I say, “Are you fucking _kidding_ me—“

            “You say we broke up, that makes it sound like I had a choice, like it was something we decided—“

            “I _left_ you? Are you fucking high right now? Is that what you’ve been telling yourself happened? That I _left_ you? You are out of your mind—“

            He lifts a hand, unable to look at me as I’m glaring at him. “I’m not saying it wasn’t my fault, it was—I mean, we both—“

            “After what you did, you want to act like _I_ had a choice? Jesus Christ, I was sick, and you—look at me! If you’re going to say I left you, look at me and say it.” He can’t. He swallows, adam’s apple bobbing, glancing off into the forest. “Isak! Look at me.”

            He sets his jaw, and looks at me.

            Staring at him, I say, “You think it was my fault?”

            “No—partly—“

            “Partly. What happened, that was on me. That’s what you’re saying.”

            “Even, three months—“

            “Three months! Yes! That’s what happens when you’re bipolar, which you’d know since you seem to have made yourself the expert.”

            “Oh, don’t—“

            “You knew what I was like, what all sides looked like. A couple months in, you knew, and you’re going to tell me after three years together that me being depressed was what did you in? And it’s my fault?”

            “I’m not—you’re twisting my words.”

            “You’re not saying anything that makes sense.”

            “It had never been like that before and you know it.” I look away, disgusted, and Isak insists, “Three months, you wouldn’t get out of bed. You had never been that bad before. I tried everything I could think of—Even, I tried, you know I tried.”

            “I cannot believe you’re blaming me for this.”

            “I’m not blaming you! I’m saying we were both at fault, mostly me, but you have to take some responsibility for this!”

            I look at him side eyed. “That day. That fucking day. Would I have _ever_ said to you the things you said to me? Would I have ever said those things to you?”

            Isak bites his lip. He’s angry, but he knows what the truth is. “No,” he admits.

            “Would I have _ever_ done to you what you did?”

            “Jesus, you want to talk about things _I’d_ never do to you, what about—“

            “Would I have ever cheated on you?” I snap.

            The air around us is endless and it’s all sparking with tension.

            Isak inhales and exhales. “Even, you and I got together when you were cheating on someone else.”

            I’m so angry that my eyes can’t focus. I mean—he’s sitting here in front of me, and there’s the world around us, and I know it’s there, but there’s a veil between me and everything else.

            Have to do something.

            I push myself off the hood. “Take me back to the city.”

            “Even—“

            I open the door to the car. “I’m not doing this. Take me back to the city.”

            Isak slides off the hood, shaking his head. “No—Even, for fuck’s sake, we’re already doing this, we might as well just—“

            I slam the door shut and get my cane from the back seat. I start walking the way we came.

            “Even! Even, be serious, don’t—“

            I will walk all the way back to the city if I have to. I don’t care if I have to crawl. I’m not doing this. I’m not fucking sitting there while he tells me it was my fault. Poor him, having to put up with crazy, depressed Even, what a hardship, like he’s the one who was hurt most, well he wasn’t, it was me, I’m the one who was hurt, I’m always the one who gets hurt—

            This is why I’m not doing this with anyone else again. They always do this. People leave you and they say it’s your fault. Everyone leaves. Always.

            I’ve been walking about a minute when I hear the car engine. The vehicle pulls up beside me. I get in and shut the door. Isak starts to talk, but I take out my phone and stick in my earbuds.

            I’m not fucking doing this.


	31. Chapter 31

We’re nearly at my apartment, and my heart is still beating too hard with the force of my fury, when Isak starts speaking again. I can just hear him over Dizraeli.

            “I’m sorry,” he says. “I know you’re angry, and I know you hate me, and that’s fine. That’s fine, I would hate me too. That day—it wasn’t anything. It was—nothing compared to what we had. Even. I don’t know if you’re listening, but—I was tired and I was drunk and it was—it was stupid. I shouldn’t have said what I said to you, I shouldn’t have—goaded you into getting out of bed, I shouldn’t have—he didn’t mean anything. I was twenty, Even. I was twenty and I didn’t know what I was doing and so I did something I wish I could take back.”

            He glances over at me. I see his reflection in the window. I don’t look back. I keep my arms crossed and I stare out at the streetlights flashing past.

            “You can’t just hate me. I know you don’t. I know—it’s messed up, and I’m sorry, you’ve never let me say sorry, but I—you know I’m sorry. I saw the movie you made. The movie about us. I watched it so many times. The boy from the land and the boy from the sea. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt. If you had died, it would have killed me too. Even. Even, are you listening to me?”

            He pulls the car over and I already have my seatbelt off. I’m out of the car and slamming the door behind me, limping down the sidewalk to the gate.

            I’m sure I hear him call my name, but I don’t stop. I don’t listen. It would all be lies anyway.

            That’s just what this story is. I get hurt. That’s what happens to people like me.

            It’s what always happens.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Part One. There will now be a week long intermission, and Part Two will begin on October 18th.


	32. The Boy Who Couldn’t Hold His Breath Under Water, Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to Part Two. Sorry for being so slow to reply to all your lovely comments! We got a surprise kitten over the weekend and all my plans basically evaporated. But thank you so much to everyone who has read and left kudos and comments. It is so appreciated.   
> Without any further ado, the story. 
> 
> _

_I don’t know that we had a love that anyone will remember. It used to seem so huge to me, that it would be impossible for it to disappear from the memory of the world._

_Only I was young. What we had won’t last in anyone’s memory but ours._

_Still. Like the great love stories, the ones that people write about, our story had the one criteria that makes a real great love story:_

_One of us died._


	33. Chapter 33

I’m not saying we weren’t happy. We were. For a long time we were.

            There were late nights playing video games, and sharing food, and jostling each other as we stood at the small sink trying to do dishes together. If I was reading on the couch, Isak would invariably drop beside me, worming his way under my arms like a cat, his curly hair tickling my nose. I’d have to wrap an arm and leg around him to keep him from falling off the couch, and he’d help me turn the pages. There were drunken stumbles home from the bar, snickering in each other’s ear as we struggled to keep ourselves on our feet, and days when we’d sit hand in hand by the shore.

            I would meet him during the school year by the angel, whether or not I had bothered to go to my own classes. We’d take the tram home, sitting with my legs splayed out and my arm loose behind his back as he told me about his day. When the summer came, he got a job in an office, and when I wasn’t working at the café, I’d meet him at the front door when he was done. The days that I wasn’t there, he’d complain. A few times when I left work, Isak would be waiting for me with flowers. He thought they were silly, but he knew that I loved gestures like that.

            It was assumed by our friends that if one of us was invited, the both of us automatically were. They would tease and roll their eyes about how codependent we were, but most of them admitted to either of us over time that they wished they had what we had.

            We rarely grew tired of each other, but sometimes we did. We weren’t perfect. I was hyper aware of not wanting to annoy Isak, because I was so overwhelmingly grateful that he’d chosen me. There were some times, though, that I’d say, “Going for a walk so you don’t get sick of my face,” and he’d frown, but then he’d smile and kiss my cheek and say, “Bring that face back soon, though. You’re not getting out of doing the laundry.”

            So we weren’t together every spare second of the day. But we were together more than most couples, and we knew it.

            “I worry you’ll get sick of me,” I said one night in bed, when we were talking about it.

            Isak rolled his eyes, and I pushed him. He sighed, and propped himself on my chest so he could look right down into my eyes. “I’ll never get sick of you. You’re too hot.”

            “I’m being serious.”

            “So am I.”

            “Be serious.”

            His eyes narrowed, and he said, “Look at the clock.”

            I glanced over at the bedside table. Of course, the clock read 21:21. I smiled, feeling so safe, and looked back at him.

            Isak brushed his nose against mine and murmured, “I’ll never be sick of you. I’ll love you forever.”

 

I can’t deny that my time with him was the best of my life. It was the only time I’ve been in love like that. The only other long-term relationship I had was with Sonja, and I was so young and so fucked up then. With Isak, I was old enough and stable enough that I could appreciate what was happening. I made my choice with him. I chose to stick it out with him, for better or worse.

            I’ve never felt safe like that since. I’ve never felt like any place I lived was as much a home as the flat we had. I’ve never looked at another person lying beside me in bed and thought that I’d marry them.

            I’ve never had anyone else in bed like him, to be honest. The sex was still the best I’ve ever had, and I’ve had my share over the years. One of the perks, I suppose, of mania and hypomania. I like sex, and sometimes I crave it like air, and Isak was the first guy I’d ever slept with and I was the first guy he’d ever slept with, and we figured things out together. We figured out what we liked and what we needed to compromise on and I can probably count on one hand the number of times with him that it wasn’t good. Every other time…

            Every other time was pretty fucking fantastic. We never settled for mediocre.

            My time with him was the best of my life. It might always be. I know that.

 

But there were the parts that weren’t good.

            I never felt like I deserved him. Not once. I grew to accept that he was mine, that he wasn’t going anywhere, but it never occurred to me that I was worthy of him. It would drive him crazy when it came up, and he’d try to convince me that we were equals, but I never bought it.

            I’d go overboard, trying to be the best boyfriend possible. Wanting to earn what I had. Isak was far more chill. He knew what I was doing, and he’d indulge me sometimes, but other times he’d get frustrated. “You don’t have to do this,” he’d insist. “You have me. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

            Still I’d be there every day after school waiting for him.

            And I’d go for months being relatively well. Then I wouldn’t be.

            Hypomanic is fine. I like being hypomanic. I need less sleep, I can be creative until my hands cramp, I’m more social, I’m more sexual, everything is bigger and brighter and better. I’d gladly be hypomanic for long stretches.

            But hypomanic is a far cry from manic.

            I’d have one or two big manic episodes a year. When I was younger, they didn’t last as long. A few weeks at the outside. And it would fall to Isak to try and rein me in.

            The first one I had when we were living together, I hadn’t slept in days—that’s always the signal that I’m about to do something. He didn’t know that yet, though. Isak tried to stay up with me, but finally he needed sleep, and he begged me to come lie down with him. Just lie next to him. I think he hoped being in bed would trigger something in me and I’d just pass out. That’s not what happened.

            I got it in my head to go down to the shore and swim to Hovedøya. It’s not that far. Less than a kilometer. But it was October, and I went into the water in my jeans and a t-shirt. I left my shoes and jacket on the shore. The cold of the water wasn’t enough to stop me. I loved it. It felt fantastic and bracing and like every single risk was begging to be conquered.

            I got halfway to the island before the police picked me up. I didn’t exactly go quietly. I couldn’t understand why they were stopping me. I wasn’t violent or anything, I just didn’t understand why they thought they had the right to stop me.

            In the hospital, when Isak and Mom and Dad came rushing in, Mom and Dad looked relieved, but Isak was in tears. “It’s my fault,” he said, shaking his head and wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve. Mom tried to hug him, but he just kept shaking his head. “It’s my fault.”

            I took him by the face and looked into his eyes. “Nothing’s wrong,” I insisted. “I only wanted to go swimming.” He started to really cry, and I didn’t know what I’d said wrong, so I just hugged him and told him everything would be okay.

            Then there was the time I went after one of his professors. Isak would complain about the man endlessly, how he was mean, how he was more interested in belittling the students than in teaching them. One day, he singled Isak out in front of the rest of the class.

            “I’ve never been so embarrassed in all my life,” Isak groaned from behind his hands. Even hours later, he was bright red.

            I was livid. It’s hard to make me angry, even when I’m sick. I’m not a person who yells unless I’m truly and deeply furious. Hearing that someone had hurt Isak set me off. “He shouldn’t be allowed to do that.”

            “No one cares what I think. He’s been there forever. They all know what he’s like.”

            “Then we should do something.”

            “Like what?” Isak flopped against the wall, miserable. “Burn his house down?”

            “Does he have a house?”

            Isak looked at me, then said, “Be serious.”

            “I’m being serious. Do you want me to burn his house down?”

            Isak stared, then shook his head. “No. Even. I do not want you to burn his house down.”

            “Well, we have to do something. He can’t just get away with it.”

            He saw that I meant it. We’d been together two years by then and he knew when I wasn’t fucking around. He backpedaled, telling me that he was just whining, that things were fine, he made me promise I wouldn’t do anything. I promised. He made me promise three times.

            He watched me like a hawk for the next few hours, and the second he dodged away to go to the bathroom, I left the flat.

            I got there first, by a few minutes. I started driving, looking up the man’s information on my phone as I steered with one hand. He was on the outskirts of the city, in a nice house. When I got there, I saw a nice car parked out front. So I got the tire iron out of the back of the van and started to break the windows of the nice car.

            I wouldn’t have hurt him. I’ve never intentionally set out to physically hurt someone other than myself. It doesn’t occur to me, no matter how far gone I am. I just wanted to destroy his things.

            Isak showed up about two minutes later, in a taxi that had let him out down the street. He shouted at me to stop, and I said, “Why?” and just kept breaking windows.

            The lights finally went on in the house, and Isak said, “Go!” He slammed into me, shoving me towards the van. “Go go go go!” He ran around to the other side, leaping behind the wheel, and I climbed into the passenger’s side, and we screeched away from the curb.

            After a few seconds, I said, “Well, that didn’t amount to much.”

            “You can’t do things like that!” Isak exploded.

            “What? Why not?’

            “Why not,” he laughed, sounding slightly hysterical. “Even—“ He sucked a breath through his teeth, then pounded a fist against the wheel a few times. “I know you’re not going to listen right now. I know you can’t listen right now. I know that. I know that.”

            “What’s wrong?” I asked, confused.

            Isak stared out the window, taking deep breaths. “Nothing. Let’s just go home.”

            So once or twice a year he’d have to deal with something like that. And I know, no matter what, it couldn’t have been easy. I know. I’ll never stop feeling guilty for that.

 

Then there was the other side. Isaac Newton and his theory of gravity. If something goes up—well, it doesn’t go sideways next.

            Same as the manic episodes, the depressive ones didn’t last too long when I was younger. Three weeks, maybe? I mean when it was really bad. Being vaguely depressed could last around two months, but I’d put on a good face for Isak. I didn’t want him to worry, even though he would, no matter what.

            When it was really bad, it was always the same. I couldn’t get out of bed. All that sleep I didn’t seem to need when I was up would suddenly come due. I couldn’t force myself to push back the sheets, to make my legs move. Showering didn’t seem like a necessity. Clean clothes either. Why? I was just at home. I was just in bed. It didn’t matter what I looked like, what I wore. It wouldn’t make anything better.

            I’d sleep, and when I woke up I wouldn’t be hungry. If I was really motivated, I’d use the bathroom, then crawl back in. If it had been up to me, I would have turned my phone off, but it was one of Isak’s rules. I was never allowed to turn my phone off, not after the first time when I did and he couldn’t get hold of me and he got so scared.

            Isak wouldn’t hover, which was good. Sometimes he’d stay in bed too and do his schoolwork, or he’d go in the other room to game. If I couldn’t even get up to go meet him at the angel, he would call me to make sure I was still there. In the morning, when he left, he’d kiss me goodbye and say, “If you need anything, you know where I am.”

            He wouldn’t let me stay in bed 24/7. He would cajole me to the kitchen table to have some food, or get me as far as the couch, where I would lay my head in his lap. He never let me wear the same clothes more than two days in a row, and he’d pull me into the shower with him. I’d lean under the nozzle and he’d be wrapped around me from behind, holding me up. Sometimes we wouldn’t say anything. Other times he’d rap, but never anything hardcore, just something to fill the silence.

            When I hit a bad patch, I’d usually lose my job. No hard feelings. I wouldn’t keep an employee who couldn’t show up for weeks on end either. Isak would make the calls to my boss, explain the situation, try to keep the job open for me, and it sometimes worked, sometimes not. When I started to come around again, he’d help me make a resume and he would walk with me to interviews.

            Because he asked, I tried therapy a few times. I never connected with a therapist, though. It never felt like they understood. It was too easy to lie to them. The only person I felt comfortable talking to was Isak, and I couldn’t put that weight on him. So I kept a lot of things to myself.

            And it went on like that for a few years. Up and down and then long stretches of middle.

            Then it got bad.

 

We’d been dating a little over two and a half years by then. It was the end of summer, and I just started to go downhill. I wasn’t really excited about anything, I didn’t want to go anywhere or do anything, just stay around the house. I was dreading the start of the school year. Every time I had to go to work at yet another café, I dragged myself through the shift, and I’d want to cry the entire time. I can’t explain why. It was just so hard, being there.

            Two weeks before school started, one day I didn’t get out of bed. Then I just stayed there.

            At first, Isak treated it like every other time. Checked in with me a few times a day, let me sleep, talked me out of bed to shower or eat. He called to let work know, and they said they’d keep the job for me. It was him telling me that, I think, that made something in me snap. The idea that things were waiting for me. Everything was going to be the exact same when I got out of that bed, and nothing would ever get better.

            On the first day of school, he tried to get me up, but I wouldn’t. After he tried for about an hour, he finally frowned and conceded that it was only the first day, and I wouldn’t miss much. The next day, he said it was only the second day of classes, and I wouldn’t miss much.

            After a week, he was starting to panic. Mom came over and tried to talk me out of bed, but I didn’t say much, just laid there half asleep. I didn’t want to get out of the bed. And there wasn’t much they could do to make me.

            At the start, Isak would plead with me. He would lie behind me on the bed, promising me whatever I wanted, if I would just get up and try. A few days of that, though, and I’d start to cry whenever he did it, because I felt so terrible, being a burden to him. He’d wrap his whole body around me, whispering, “Don’t, Even. Don’t.”

            He stopped trying to talk me out of bed.

            It’s surprising how a day becomes a week becomes a month and then more. My life consisted of the bed and my own thoughts. Once I’d committed to that, there didn’t seem to be anything pulling me back. I had already gone far enough to fuck up my school year. I couldn’t imagine going out and seeing people like this, let alone have a job.

            Mom would stop in once a day to look in. Sometimes she would spoon feed me, or wipe my face off with a cloth. Mom’s the one person who I don’t think will ever really leave me. The only thing that could keep her away is if one of us died.

            Isak did his best for a long time. He was supportive and patient for a long time. I know that. I appreciate that, and I respect that.

            After two months, though, he started getting frustrated.

            He started to get sarcastic. He’d say things like, “What are you going to do today?” and then answer his own question with, “Nothing, huh.” He would play his games or music too loud, thinking it would bother me. It didn’t bother me. I was indifferent.

            One day, when I wouldn’t get out of bed so that he could change the sheets, he actually pulled me off onto the floor. I hit it with a thud and laid there. After a moment, he crouched down, bouncing on his haunches. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?” I just got up and went to lock myself in the bathroom until he was done.

            He didn’t sleep with me in the bed anymore. He’d fall asleep on the couch with the TV on. He was gone more, leaving me alone. He would say that he was going out with his friends. At first he’d say I should join, but then he’d just say what time he’d be back. After awhile he wouldn’t say what time he’d be back.

            One morning I woke up and found him sitting beside the bed, watching me.

            “Do you care at all about me?” Isak asked.

            “Of course.”

            “Do you know how hard this is for me? Having to see you like this?”

            “No.”

            “It’s awful. It sucks, Even. It’s like I don’t even have a boyfriend anymore. You’re just there, this—lump, and you sort of look like him, but you’re not him.”

            I shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do about that.”

            “Yes there is. Get up. Get dressed. We’ll go to the hospital. We’ll do something about this.”

            “You just want me gone.”

            “No—“

            “You wish you’d never met me.” Isak looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head, and I murmured, “Say it. Say you wish you’d never met me.”

            He pushed himself up, muttering, “Don’t tempt me,” and walked away.

 

I had been in bed for just over three months when the last day came. There was no real indication that it was going to be the last day, or that it would be all that different from the days that came before. I woke up late, Isak already gone, and went back to sleep. I woke up again, and had a banana, then fell back asleep.

            When I woke up the third time, it was to the sound of something falling. Squinting my eyes, I looked across the room. Isak had thrown his backpack to the ground, and he looked angry.

            “Enough,” he said. “Enough. This house smells like piss and that’s because that’s what you smell like. I can’t do this another day. Get the fuck out of bed, because I’m taking you to the hospital.”

            I settled back down. “I’m not going to any hospital—“

            “You’re going to die. Do you realize that? Do you know what you look like? Even, you’re fucking sick, and you need help and I can’t _deal_ with this anymore.” His face scrunched up, and he clapped his hands together. “Get up! Now!”

            I closed my eyes.

            A second later, Isak had torn the blanket off of me, and he had me by the arms, yanking me upwards. He wasn’t being careful. It hurt, and I automatically went limp.

            “God damn it—help me! You need to fucking help me here!” He was stronger than me, by a lot, especially after three months of not moving, and he was hurting me. I didn’t mind, not really. I knew I probably deserved it.

            I just flopped around like a dead fish, and Isak let me go. I drooped back down on the bed. My arms ached where he’d grabbed and twisted them. I could hear him breathing heavily.

            “You’re so selfish,” he said. “You’re so fucking selfish, you know that? All these years, I’ve looked after you, and you’re too fucking selfish to look after yourself. You’re not my boyfriend, you’re like some infant I’m supposed to look after. You’ve never been a good boyfriend. Do you hear me, Even? Do you hear what I’m saying to you?”

            I heard him.

            “You know what? There’s another guy that likes me.”

            I heard that too.

            “At the bar. When I go out with the guys, I always see him there. He gave me his number. Do you know what I’m going to do if you don’t get out of this bed and go to the hospital?”

            I didn’t know.

            “If you don’t get up, right now, I’m going to call him, and tell him I’m meeting him at the bar. Where I should be with you, but instead I’m going there with him. Do you even care? Or do you just not give a shit?”

            I was scared.

            Isak hissed. “You know what? I _don’t_ give a shit. You want to stay here, you want to—you want to fucking die here? Go ahead, Even. Do it. You do whatever the hell you want. I don’t care what you do. I’m done.” I heard him grab his things. “I’m fucking done with you.”

            A moment later, I heard the front door slam.

 

I left the house for the first time in three months. I put on clothes that were suddenly too big for me. It felt strange to put on shoes. It took me awhile to get up and get out of the house, but finally I did it.

            I walked to the bar. The day was cold and grey. The last time I’d been outdoors it had still been warm, but by then it was late November. I pulled my sweater closer and avoided everyone’s eyes. I felt like everyone must be looking at me. They’d see me and know I was sick.

            In my heart, I didn’t really believe that there was another guy. I thought it was just some trick to get me out of bed. Isak would never cheat on me. Of course he wouldn’t. He was upset, he had every right to be upset. I was a terrible boyfriend and always had been. This was a test. I just had to get out of bed and go out to where he said he would be.

            If I did that, he’d see that I was trying. I hadn’t tried in a long time, and I felt awful for that. I could see that now. I was terrified he’d leave me. But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t really. He was mad, but I could make things better by making an effort. This was an effort. The world was huge and I was so small and insignificant, but I had him, and that _mattered_. I would show him that this mattered to me.

            It was a test. I knew it was a test.

            I dragged myself through the streets, scared and feeling so small but knowing that I was doing the right thing. I was doing this for Isak, because he wanted me to. He probably hadn’t even really been mad. He’d never really say something like I should go ahead and die. Maybe that was just in my head. Maybe I dreamed it up. He wouldn’t do that to me.

            Not Isak. Not my Isak.

            So I got to the sidewalk across the street from the bar and looked into the windows and there was Isak with some guy straddling his lap and their tongues in each other’s mouths. I just stood there. I’m not sure how long. I watched Isak with someone else, and he looked happy. I realized that I couldn’t remember the last time he looked happy.

            Jonas walked up, a disgusted look on his face, saying something to Isak, and Isak said a few irritated words to him. Jonas put up his hands and left. Isak just smiled at the boy in his lap, and laughed at something he said, and they started kissing again. Isak’s hands were under the boy’s ass. I knew what that felt like.

            _He doesn’t care if I die_ , I realized. I realized that I didn’t either. In fact, I thought it would be much better if I did.

 

A neighbour found me in the stairwell and called 113. After I took all the pills, I got it in my head to go up to the roof, where they wouldn’t find me for awhile. That backfired when I passed out.

            I don’t remember the ambulance. I don’t remember anything after seeing Isak at the bar, really. I just know what happened in the blank sections because of what was told to me. The neighbour found me in the stairwell, and it was close, because no one was supposed to go up to the roof. She was going for a cigarette, though. The doctors told my parents I couldn’t have been up there for more than two minutes when she found me. Anymore, and I would have had brain damage.

            So there was the ambulance, and my heart stopped. For two whole minutes, my heart stopped.

            I’ll never get over that. I’ve never been someone who thinks a lot of myself, but I’ve always thought that one of my best qualities is that I’ve got a big heart. The idea that it broke so hard that I stopped it—I’ll never be over it. I can’t forgive that. Not of myself, and not of anyone else.

            They restarted my heart. Obviously. I’m here, aren’t I. My heart’s strong enough that it needs more than love to stop it forever.

 

I woke up in a hospital bed, groggy. Not understanding where I was or what was going on.

            The first person I saw was my mother. She was on the left-hand side of the bed, watching me intently. I was drugged, so I smiled when I saw her. She smiled back, taking my hand.

            Then I realized I was in the hospital, and I knew I was still alive.

            “No,” I whispered. I started shaking my head. “No—“

            “Even,” Mom said, getting up. She squeezed my hand, running her fingers over my face. “Look at me. My baby.” She smiled, tearing up. “My baby.”

            I took in my surroundings. Dad was sitting by the window. He was grey. I’d never seen a person actually turn grey before. I didn’t look at him too long. I was too ashamed. So I looked to the right, and there was Isak.

            He was sitting on a chair on the other side of the bed, eyes wide. There were circles under his eyes and he was wearing the same thing as when he told me to go ahead and die.

            The sight of him repelled me.

            Closing my eyes, I asked my mother, “Why is he here?”

            “What?”

            “Get him out of here.”

            I heard Isak say my name, and I tried to turn away from him, to get away, but something was holding me down. I opened my eyes, and there was an IV in the back of my hand. I could see the bruises on my arms where he’d grabbed me.

            “Get him away from me,” I said.

            “Even, calm down, it’s just Isak, it’s okay—“

            “I don’t want him here, I don’t want him, he’s nothing, get him away from me—“

            “Even,” Isak said, “I’m—“

            I lost it. I ripped the IV right out of my hand and started screaming. I can’t remember what I said. I remember shoving myself out of bed to get as far from him as possible. I remember screaming so loud that my throat hurt for days.

            And I just kept screaming and screaming until my father pushed Isak out the door and I was sitting on the ground against the wall, bleeding everywhere, my mom with her arms around me, and I cried for what I’d lost and the knowledge that I was still alive.

           

That’s the last time I saw him. For four years. Until I saw him that day at the university, I hadn’t spoken to him. Not since that day. My parents were the ones who went to the flat and got my things after I was discharged from the psychiatric hospital. They tried to talk me into seeing him, but I outright said that if he unexpectedly showed up and I had to see his face, the next thing I would do was kill myself, and I’d make sure it stuck.

            That’s the story. That’s me and Isak. Just another love story gone wrong.


	34. Scene 28

_Interior. The old school room. The school has been closed for a few years, and it’s not very run down, but there’s some graffiti on the walls. Tables are pushed against the walls, the blinds half pulled down. The light is from a few candles._

_Anders and Kari are sitting in the middle of the room. They’ve had a few beers, each with one in their hands. They feel easier in one another’s company after the day’s events._

 

 _ANDERS_ : It’s true. I swear it is.

 

 _KARI (laughing):_ It is not. I’m not that gullible.

 

 _ANDERS:_ You’re absolutely that gullible.

 

 _KARI:_ No. ( _She has some of her beer, then sets the bottle aside and looks around the room.)_ I can’t believe we did this. You’re such a bad influence. I haven’t done anything like this since we were in school together.

 

 _ANDERS_ : We’re back in school now.

 

_Kari shoves him, and he laughs._

_KARI_ : You know what I mean. Breaking and entering—that’s not the kind of thing I do. I’m respectable. You know that? People respect me.

 

 _ANDERS_ : Overrated. No one’s ever respected me, and I’m fine.

 

 _KARI_ : It’s weird. Being back here.

 

 _ANDERS_ : Yeah.

 

 _KARI:_ But…I’m glad we did.

 

 _ANDERS:_ Yeah?

 

 _KARI:_ Even if we had to break in to do it. Unbelievable. Like, where did you even learn to do that? I know it wasn’t the other crazies at the hospital. You’ve been breaking into places since we were fifteen.

 

 _ANDERS:_ I taught myself.

 

 _KARI:_ You what?

 

 _ANDERS_ : It was easy. I just got a lock and practiced in my room. When I figured out how to open that one, I got another one. And I just kept going until I had a collection. When my father found out, he lost his mind.

 

 _KARI_ : I bet he did!

 

 _ANDERS_ ( _imitating his father)_ : Boy! What are you doing? They see a brown boy with a lock collection, they put you away until the sun burns out. Do you want to be in prison when the sun burns out?

 

 _KARI:_ He said that to me once. About the sun burning out.

 

 _ANDERS:_ Did he? I’m so embarrassed.

 

 _KARI:_ He said, Kari, you cannot hang around alone with my son. They will see him and put him in prison until the sun burns out.

 

 _ANDERS:_ Oh my God, that’s terrible. He’s insane. And I know insane.

 

 _KARI:_ No, he was always really nice. I liked your dad. He was just…eccentric.

 

 _ANDERS:_ That’s diplomatic!

 

 _KARI:_ It’s true. So…what’s someplace you’ve broken into that no one knows about?

 

 _ANDERS:_ I’m not confessing my crimes to you!

 

 _KARI:_ If not to me, then who?

 

 _ANDERS:_ You’ll tell the police.

 

 _KARI:_ I won’t. Promise.

 

 _ANDERS_ ( _sighs, giving in_ ): The doctor’s office. At the hospital.

 

 _KARI:_ No way.

 

 _ANDERS:_ It’s true. He was driving me crazy—no pun intended, so I snuck out of my room one night and down to his office and broke in. I logged onto his computer—

 

 _KARI:_ You logged onto his computer? How?

 

 _ANDERS:_ He used his kid’s name as a password. It was really easy.

 

 _KARI:_ You’re so bad. So what, did you find something naughty?

 

 _ANDERS:_ No, it was really boring. He just looked at pictures of boats and some kind of purebred dog. There wasn’t even any porn. It was a real let down.

 

 _KARI:_ You have the best stories. Even when they don’t end with porn.

 

 _ANDERS_ : You have stories too.

 

 _KARI:_ I don’t. No good ones. And any good ones that I had, they always had you in it. I still tell stories about you at parties, because I don’t have any stories of my own.

 

 _ANDERS:_ You’re not being fair. You write. You have plenty of stories.

 

 _KARI (she’s getting slightly uncomfortable, but Anders can’t tell):_ They were never as good as yours.

 

 _ANDERS:_ I bet you have a great story.

 

 _KARI:_ I really don’t.

 

 _ANDERS:_ Tell me about the worst thing you ever did.

 

 _KARI:_ Fuck off, I’m not going to do that.

 

 _ANDERS (teasing):_ You’re such a hypocrite. You know all my secrets, and you won’t tell me any of yours.

 

_Kari doesn’t say anything for a long moment. She looks at the candles, obviously not wanting to answer. Anders finally sees that she’s uncomfortable._

 

 _ANDERS:_ Anyways—remember when we had math in here? And Mrs.—

 

 _KARI:_ I’ll tell you. Um—I’ll tell you the worst thing I ever did.

 

 _ANDERS:_ You don’t have to. I was only playing.

 

 _KARI:_ It’s like you said. You’ve told me all your secrets and I never tell you any of mine.

 

_When she tells the story, she doesn’t look at him. She looks at the candles, too ashamed to look him in the eyes._

_KARI:_ My first year at university, I was in this writing class. And we had this assignment. It was called ‘The Worst Thing I Ever Did.’ That’s what the story had to be called. It didn’t have to be something about you. Or it could. It didn’t matter, it was just the theme. I tried for two weeks to write something, but it was…nothing I wrote felt real. I’ve had such a…boring life. I wanted to write something that had happened to me, something real, but my life hasn’t seemed real. Like everything I’ve done is inconsequential. I wrote about the time I yelled at my grandmother for no reason, but that was so stupid. It was childish. I tried making something up, but I knew that other people in the class were writing about things that had actually happened to them. Everyone seemed to have something good, and I wanted to impress the instructor—I wanted to impress everyone else. I didn’t want them to see me as…someone inconsequential.

 

_She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Anders is watching her. Deep down, he’s guessed, but he hasn’t let himself believe it yet._

_ANDERS:_ So what did you do?

 

 _KARI:_ I wrote about something that had happened to someone else. A secret they told me. That they told me to never tell anyone. I got the best mark in the class. Everyone was saying how real it felt, how I’d captured—the moment or whatever. The whole time, I—I should have felt ashamed, but I was so relieved that they thought I could tell a story, that I didn’t care. It wasn’t until it was over and there was another assignment and I realized what I’d really done. That…someone trusted me. And I used their trust for an assignment that didn’t mean everything. I’m just a fraud with no stories of my own. I’m a story thief. And I still don’t know what I feel worse about. The fact that I’m a thief, or that my stories will never be as good as…the person I stole them from.

 

_They say nothing for a moment. When Anders speaks, he sounds calm, but he is struggling to maintain his composure._

_ANDERS:_ Which story did you use?

 

 _KARI:_ When Aslaug pushed you and you hit your head because you were trying to grab her.

 

_Anders cannot say anything. He is mortified that people heard that story, and furious that his friend has betrayed his confidence, especially after their discussion that afternoon._

_KARI:_ I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Anders.

 

_He says nothing._

_KARI:_ Yell at me. Scream at me. Do something. I want you to. Please.

 

_Anders gets up, brushing himself off and not looking at her. He starts walking away._

_KARI:_ Anders—please, I’m sorry—

 

_He stops, looking back at her._

_ANDERS:_ You want me to forgive you? You want me to get mad, give you some closure about this? That’s how it’s supposed to go, right? Except it’s not your story. It’s never been your story. It’s mine. And I decide how it goes.

 

_He leaves, and Kari is left alone in the room. The camera pans out through the doorway as she sits there, then throws a bottle across the room._

_END SCENE_


	35. Chapter 35

_Dear Even,_

_I don’t know if this is any good or not. I can’t even tell anymore. But the idea of leaving the scene as it had made me sick with myself._

_I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. I had already used so much of your story that I tried to convince myself that you’d be fine if I used other parts too. But if I really believed that, why did I show the pages to Frode before you?_

_It’s because I’m selfish. I know I am. I wanted to impress him, I wanted to make the story as gripping as possible, and so I used more of your story. Your story is better than anything I could come up with on my own. So I stole from you. Again._

_I don’t know what Frode is going to use. I’m leaving this for you the same day that I’m going to see him. He’s rewritten the scene himself. I know if he uses this scene, we’ll have to change the next few scenes, because the whole point of this scene was to make Anders a little less sympathetic, not more. I don’t think he’ll use it, but it’s the scene I wish was there instead._

_I miss you. Having you around since you came back to Oslo has been amazing, and not seeing you has been fucking awful. I’ve really screwed you around since you got here, though, and I know that. If you don’t want anything to do with me, I understand. Except I’m selfish and I miss my friend. I’ll stay away if that’s what you want, but I don’t want you thinking that’s something I want too._

_That’s all for now. All my love,_

_The Story Thief_

It was all in my mailbox this morning, a few pages folded up and pushed through the slot. I read it at the kitchen table, but not until I had a cup of coffee first.

            Now I’m on my second.

            I drop the pages on the table again after reading it all through a third time. It’s not great. It would have to be cut down to be a viable scene in a movie. It won’t be. It’s too cliched.

            Which isn’t to say that I don’t appreciate the gesture.

            I’m not sure what to do. I don’t know how many times I’m supposed to forgive people before just throwing my hands in the air and living the rest of my days as a hermit. Just me in a cave. With some goats. I’m not sure how I’d get a goat, let alone several, but it seems necessary to my vision.

            It’s a strange start to the day. I don’t feel angry, though. I thought I would when Mette tried to contact me again. I knew she would. We’re friends. She came to visit me in the hospital even after I spray painted her walls that one time. We do things to each other, we fuck up, and eventually we find each other again.

            I don’t know whether to be relieved or disturbed by that.

            My phone. Mom, checking to see if I’m awake. I am. I didn’t fall asleep until late. I started drawing a new comic and couldn’t seem to stop until I fell asleep on the window sill. My back is paying the price for that one. We’re going for lunch, and I should get ready soon.

            I run my fingertips over the lines of text. I don’t have to figure this out now. Not everything has to be a split decision.

 

Mom has a mouthful of food, so it’s probably not the most opportune time to pose a question, but I do it anyways. “Ask you something?”

            She gives me a glare, telling me with her eyes, _You had to ask at this exact second?_ I smile a little and scoop up some quinoa. Once she’s swallowed and wiped her lips with her napkin, she arches a brow at me. “Yes, child of mine?”

            We’re in a nice little place I’ve never been to before. Vegetarian. Neither of us are, but I’m always willing to try new foods. I got that from Mom. She’s an adventurous eater.

            “How do you know when to forgive someone?’

            Mom gazes at me a second, then picks up her water glass. “There’s a light, easy question.”

            “If I can’t talk with my mother about these things, who can I?”

            “Is this about Isak?”

            I bark, and shake my head. “It is not. Mette wants me to forgive her.”

            Mom sighs through her nose. “Mette,” she mutters. “You know, I _liked_ her—“

            “Don’t be too bitter. I haven’t decided if I’m forgiving her or not yet. You might have to see her again.”

            “I don’t have to do anything. I’m your mother. I vet your friends.”

            “You never have before.”

            “It seems like it’s time.”

            I swirl my fork around the bowl, then ask, “How did you forgive Dad?” Mom looks at me without blinking, and I shrug my shoulders, biting into my lower lip.

            Inhaling, like she’s gathering strength from the air, Mom leans back in the chair. I see her deciding if it’s something she wants to keep to herself or share with me. I understand it’s asking a lot. It’s okay if she doesn’t want to.

            “Forgiveness is a lie,” Mom says.

            I raise a brow. “Jesus, and I’m the one being Mr. Serious.”

            “I mean how people talk about forgiveness. Like it’s this thing that you _do_. You do it once, or you build up to it and then it’s just all set. You know it’s not like that. Anybody with a brain knows it’s not like that. Forgiveness isn’t a straight line. It’s—it’s a zigzag.” She etches one out in the air. “Today I feel better about what you did, tomorrow I hate you, two weeks from now I feel better about it, the next day I think why the hell am I even looking at you. That’s how forgiveness works. And after time, if you’re lucky, those big peaks happen less and less. It’s manageable. It doesn’t become this huge— _thing_ that colours every interaction you have with a person. But it’s still there. That thing. All of a sudden you find yourself thinking, you were supposed to be there, and you weren’t, and how can you sit there watching TV like nothing ever went wrong, and how can I have let you back in this house? And then you’re grumpy for a few hours, and the next day you just get on with life. It never entirely goes away. I mean—he’s dead. He’s gone, and I miss him so much, Even—I miss him more than I can possibly tell you, and I’m so glad we had those last few years together. And yeah, there’s still days where I want to pull him out of the ground and kick his corpse.” Mom shrugs, and says, “We should have started drinking early.”

            “You guys were happy, though. Right? The last few years, you were happy.”

            “Yeah. We were. It didn’t make me feel any less guilty. Or him feel any less guilty.”

            “I never tried to make you feel bad about it, did I?”

            “No, and I wish you had. If you’d just—if you’d said you were angry, if you’d asked me how I could let him back after everything, if you’d been a little less—good. It might have been easier. But you’re my sweet boy, and you didn’t want me to feel bad.” Mom crosses her arms. “How mad were you when I took him back?”

            “Not…mad. Hurt. It was like saying that what he did was okay.”

            “Even—you know I’m the one who asked him to leave, right?”

            “Yeah.”

            “I loved your father. I’ll always love your father. He was so many wonderful things. But he was also weak, which is something you and I have never been. He couldn’t deal with what was happening with you, and that was hurting you even more, and I told him—if you can’t deal with this, you have to go. And he made the decision to go. But I’m the one who first suggested it. That he leave.”

            “And once I was out of your hair, he could come back.”

            She starts to speak, then stops herself. She thinks for a moment. “In a way,” she admits, and I’m surprised at how honest we’re being with one another. “Once you were in a good place, and stable, and you had someone that I knew would take care of you, and I was on my own—I missed him. I missed him so much. And he missed me. He missed you too, sweetheart, he just—“

            “Couldn’t deal with it.”

            “He never forgave himself. If we’re talking about forgiveness. He hated himself until the day he died for leaving when you needed him.”

            I shake my head, and give her a smile. “I didn’t need him. I needed someone who’d stay. That was you.”

            Mom smiles back, then lets out a laugh. “Do they have chocolate in this place at least? It’ll probably be dark and awful and free trade nonsense or something.”

            “You want to torture those poor cows just so you can have milk chocolate. You should feel so ashamed.”

            She picks up her fork again, digging in. “So? What are you going to do about Mette, then? I don’t know if _that_ helped at all.”

            “Not sure.” I stretch my leg out, wincing. “Life is short, after all.”

            “That it is.”


	36. Chapter 36

When my phone goes off—my phone is never silent, I swear to God, it’s always shaking and vibrating in my pocket—I consider ignoring it.

            I don’t, and I’m glad.

            I answer with a smile, settling against the bus window. “Hi.”

            “Hi,” Sonja says.

            “This is where I apologize for being absent minded and not coming to see you, isn’t it.”

            “Almost like you’re psychic or something.”

            “I was busy, actually. I had a job.”

            “Had?”

            “They didn’t fire me, I quit. I’ll tell you about it when I see you.”

            She sighs, put upon. “Yes you will. So? When will I see you?”

            “When can you have me?”

            “Do you want to come for the weekend? Or is that too soon?”

            Snorting, I say, “You know me. Ask me to do something spontaneous and by the time you’ve turned around, I’m already doing it. I think I’ll take the train. I’ll take the early one, so I’ll probably show up late afternoon.”

            “Just give me a call and we’ll come get you.”

            “Excellent. I will see you then.”

            “See you then. Bye, Even.”

            “Bye.” I hang up, slipping my phone in my bag.

            When I look out the window, I see Sana and Yousef across the street. She’s pulling him by the hand and he’s laughing. Then the bus turns around the corner and I lose sight of more old ghosts.

            Oh, fuck it. I pull my phone back out.

So…I’m not sure why I end up sleeping with Mette, but it probably has something to do with all the weed we just smoked.

            That and she’s gorgeous and what the hell. Why not.

 

The phone starts vibrating. I must have dropped it on something—keys? It’s rattling like crazy. I was almost asleep, but it’s woken me up.

            Mette too. She lets out a soft noise, turning away.

            I grab the phone, squinting at it. No. Not doing this. I reject the call. I’ve already made questionable choices today. I bury my face against the pillow, phone still loose in my hand.

            I’m dreaming again. I’m dreaming that I’m on some sort of dragon creature and we’re falling through a fantastically coloured rain forest that seems to have no bottom—

            The phone startles me awake again, and Mette groans, “What the fuck, man—“

            “I got it,” I say, pushing off the sheets and getting up. “Sorry, I got it.”

            I answer the phone, but I hold it against my chest as I walk to the bathroom. I’m naked, limping a little more than usual. There’s sound leaking from the phone.

            Half closing the door, I shake my head, then lift the phone to my ear. I’m no longer stoned, headache starting to come in a little.

            “Hello?” a voice is yelling. “Hello?”

            “Yeah,” I say.

            “Hi,” Isak says. He’s drunk. I can hear it. Out partying somewhere, at a club, and calling me.

            “It’s late.”

            “Yeah, I know, but—I’ve wanted to call you. How are you?”

            “Isak, it’s really late, I—“

            “I want to talk to you.”

            “I can’t.”

            “Listen—“

            “Isak, I’ve got company.”

            “What?”

            “I’ve got company over, and you calling woke us both up. I need to go.”

            There’s a pause. “Oh. Yeah. No. No, wait, I wanted to say—“

            “Don’t call me when you’re drunk. I have to go.”

            I hang up before he can say anything else. I put the phone on silent and leave it on the sink. Then I go back to join Mette in bed, pulling her close and laying my face against her beautiful hair.


	37. I Believe Myself to Be a Ghost

_When I was a boy, before I was old enough for love stories, my poison of choice was ghost stories. I’d tear through the ones in the school library, then the adult library. Mom wasn’t crazy about it, but Dad had gone through a ghost story phase when he was young, and was still a big horror reader as I grew up. John Ajvide Lindqvist was his favourite writer, so his tastes weren’t exactly prosaic. He preferred a story where you couldn’t always see the ending coming._

_This was his favourite one to tell me when I was young._

_There was a girl named Vigdis._

_(She only had a name because I insisted that she have one; Dad would have been fine if she was simply called ‘the girl’)._

_She lived outside a village in the house where her father and mother had lived, but they had died, and now she lived alone, for she could not leave the place where they had once been._

_(This prompted me to have a crying fit that made my mother absolutely furious with my father, because I couldn’t get him to say how they had died, and if I didn’t know how they died, how could I keep my family from meeting the same fate?)_

_She was not known for being the prettiest, or the smartest, or the bravest, or the most resourceful, but of anyone she was the most loyal._

_(The irony of my father emphasizing this trait to me was not lost upon me in later years.)_

_Some thought it a bit odd that a girl would choose to live outside the village, by herself, as it was not the way it was done then. But she was friendly enough, and kind enough, and she had the same friends she’d always had, and worked hard, and could always, always be counted on when there was a need._

_The day came, quite unexpectedly, when one of the boys of the village, Kjell (named for the same reasons as above), announced that he was in love with Vigdis. It was unexpected most of all by Vigdis. She thought herself strange. She thought that her circumstances made her strange, and that it would prevent a normal life from becoming her own._

_Vigdis was not opposed to the idea of Kjell. In truth, she rather liked him. He was strong and kind and the things a man should be. He would make a good husband, words that she had thought of when it came to matches for her friends, but never herself._

_So she let herself be courted, slowly, respectfully, in the custom of their village. She grew to believe that a life alone in her cottage was not the one destined for her. Like her friends, like her closest friend, she would marry, and live well, live as a person is supposed to._

_She fell in love with Kjell. They loved one another._

_(As a child, this would be the point where I’d say, “Get to the ghost part,” and Dad would laugh and say, “You already know how this story ends. You know it’s not that easy.”)_

_They planned to wed in summer, and as the date of their wedding drew closer, Vigdis noticed that something was wrong with her husband-to-be. He was pale, with circles drawn beneath his eyes. He would insist that he was fine, but she could see the strength leaving him, as could those around him._

_She pleaded with him to seek help, but Kjell would not do so. His mother pleaded with him to seek help, but Kjell would not do so. His father pleaded with him to seek help, but Kjell would not do so._

_(“Why not?” I asked my father. He thought about it, then answered, “Maybe he was afraid. Most people are afraid of being sick. And some people, they think if they’re not told by another person that they are, that they really are sick, that it doesn’t exist. That if they ignore it, it just won’t be.”_

_“That’s stupid,” I said, and he laughed and said that it was.)_

_The week before their wedding, Kjell collapsed. He never opened his eyes again, nor said another word. He died the night before he and Vigdis were to wed._

_(The first time Dad told me this, I could barely be still. “So he’s the ghost? What’s he going to do? Is he going to be a scary ghost?” Dad shook his head and told me, “Listen.”)_

_Kjell was buried, and the people of the village were very sad. People are sad when someone dies, as they should be. But none more so than Vigdis._

_Except her sadness was a strange thing. Her sadness became a sickness. She could not leave her home. She could not speak to other people. When her friends came to her cottage, she would not answer the door. She stayed by herself, alone in her grief, weeping, and wishing for what might have been but wasn’t._

_(“But he comes back, right?” I asked Dad. “Listen,” he said.)_

_Time passed, and the world continued, but Vigdis did not. She stayed trapped in her sorrow, wasting away as she thought of what she had lost. Finally, the day came when she could not remember the last time she saw another person. And she found that she did not know how to leave this place any longer._

_She wasted away in her cottage until the day she died, still young, but her heart broken._

_(“So she’s the ghost,” I said, and Dad actually put a hand over my mouth. “Listen,” he smiled.)_

_Once Vigdis died, she discovered that she could leave the house once more. She haunted the village at night, looking in on those she had loved, watching them age, watching their children grow, watching their parents die. She watched time pass as she remained an ageless shade._

_She wandered the woods, looking for her lost love. If she remained, why didn’t Kjell? She roamed, searching for the man who had promised her a normal life, then disappeared. How could he leave her?_

_If she searched long enough, if she waited, he would come. He loved her. He would come._

_So Vigdis the ghost searched for her husband-to-be, and watched her friends grow old, and haunted the cottage that began to fall in upon itself. She heard the children whisper to themselves that a ghost lived there, and that it was an evil place. Vigdis did not consider herself evil. She was a ghost, nothing more._

_One night, when Vigdis had been dead for many years, she was watching through the window as the granddaughter of her closest friend slept. She liked to watch people sleep. It reminded her of a time when she had slept. She moved through the wall, thinking of when she had been a girl. She would always look young, but she knew that years had gone by._

_When she touched the girl’s hair, the child woke up and began to scream. Vigdis was so startled that she simply reacted. She hit the child until it stopped screaming. It is a difficult thing to frighten a ghost, but the child had succeeded. In all her years as a ghost, no one had ever seen her before._

_Afraid, Vigdis fled through the walls back to her cottage. She hid, secure in the knowledge that there was nothing that could be done to harm her. She was already dead; what else could anyone do?_

_But still, the townspeople came to the cottage, and though she tried to float away, she found that she was trapped in her own home. She could not understand what was happening._

_They broke down the door, and Vigdis was angry and frightened. How dare they come into her home? The place where she had died. How had they known it was her?_

_Strangest of all was the fact that they were yelling at her, accusing her of things._

_“How can you see me?” she finally cried. “I am a ghost!”_

_“You are not a ghost,” the townspeople said. “You’re a crazy old woman and a child killer! You haven’t even washed the blood off your hands!”_

_Vigdis saw no blood, and when she looked in the mirror, she did not see an old woman. She saw a young woman, long since dead._

_She told them that they were wrong, that she had died. That she was a ghost._

_And the townspeople said, no, not yet. But you will be._

_You will be._


	38. Chapter 38

“We agree that last night was a fluke, right?” Mette says.

            She sounds so much more alive than I feel. My head has flopped against the tram window, my eyes shut behind sunglasses. My head…let’s not talk about what’s happening inside my head right now.

            “Even.”

            “Yuh,” I say, trying to get either ‘yes’ or ‘uh huh’ and ending up with neither.

            “Are you going to make it?”

            “Just get me to the train. And I’ll sleep it off.”

            “You’re that out of practice, huh?”

            “That and—“ I push myself off the window, stretching my arm behind her so I can turn in my seat and let my legs splay out. “A lesson from me to you. Research for the movie, if you want it. Don’t mix pot and lithium. Or if you do…not in those quantities.”

            “Sorry. You called and I panicked. I wanted you in a good mood.”

            “I was in a good mood. I’m glad last night happened. But yeah.” I reach up, giving her hair a pat. “One-time thing. Old time’s sake.”

            “Not that it wasn’t good.”

            “You’re a goddess of sex. A real-life Freyja.”

            She smiles crookedly. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself. You’re phenomenal, still, which you know. Bastard. But you and I as anything other than friends was always a bad idea, wasn’t it.”

            “Me with anyone was always a bad idea.”

            “Stop it.”

            “I’m on my way to visit my first serious ex. Who got to experience what I was like before I was diagnosed. This is going to be a good reminder of why people are better off once I get my claws out of them.”

            Mette turns to look at me with a frown. “Even—“

            “Ugh, I can see you want to try and raise my self esteem. Not having it. Thank you, but no. Head hurts too much to be polite about that shit.” I jostle her lightly, even though doing that makes me want to throw up. “We need to find you someone. Any possibilities?”

            “I’m too busy.”

            “You’re so important. Writer, producer—“

            “You get sharper when you’re hungover.”

            “Sorry.”

            “No, you should do it more often. You’re too nice when you’re on lithium. I walk all over you when you’re nice.” Mette sighs. “As we’ve demonstrated.”

            “We talked about it, we’re working past it. Stop it. I’m going to make a project of you. Get Mette a date.”

            “No thank you. I don’t know how to handle myself. What would I do with a date?”

            “Go out, have fun. Think about something other than your ambitions.”

            She shakes her head. “Never living that down.” She raises her hands. “Which is fine, and I understand that forgiveness is a journey or something—“

            “Do you have a preference for this date?” I ask. “Gender?”

            “Is this where we have the argument of who’s more pan?”

            “So just find someone who I think you’ll like. I can do that.”

            Mette sighs through her nose, then drops her head back on my arm. “Fine. If you find someone you think I’d like…I trust your judgment. And if I find someone I think you’d like—“

            “You’ll tell them to run in the opposite direction,” I finish.

            “Impossible,” she mutters.

 

Messy.

            I’ve a bad habit of sleeping with my friends. Or my exes. Or people I probably just shouldn’t sleep with. There’s been a few times where things got weird. I’m never interested in forever—learned that lesson. Much as I enjoy a tragic love story, I’ve no intention of living another one. Other people get attached, though. That’s not what I want. Or need.

            I don’t know. I asked Mette to come over and talk, and it was awkward, and then she said she had some joints, and it was already a difficult conversation, so why not chill out a bit? It made it easier to talk about things, and we started talking about the old days, and the times we hooked up, back in the beginning, and then I was straddling her on the floor and she had her hands in my hair.

            So that’s a thing that happened.

            I’m not upset about it. The most I want to do is roll my eyes at myself. Instead of having a hard conversation with Mette, I got high and took off my clothes. I’m exasperated with myself, opposed to anything else.

            It’s not like I’m all that caught up about etiquette surrounding sex. I haven’t been monogamous with anyone since Isak, because monogamy seems to be a big neon sign that says _this is serious_. I don’t want to be serious. Any relationship I’ve had since him has been open, not that I’ve had many.

            I have clear eyes on things. I know what I do and don’t want. Usually, though, the people around me don’t.

            It’s not because I’m so great. It’s because I have this façade I wear that makes people think I’m something special. I’m not special. I’m constantly scrambling to hide that I am a walking disaster. I used to say that life was like a movie, and you could direct your own life. These days, I think that I’m a director, but a director who makes glossy looking movies with no real plot. A hack. Things look good on the surface, but underneath? Best not to look too close.

            People get lured in by gloss, though. They like the performance. They think it’s real.

            It’s not.

            I’ve seen enough ghosts lately that know what’s underneath. All I want to do is distance myself. But still, here I am having sex with Mette and taking the train to see Sonja.

            Apparently I even send mixed messages to myself.


	39. Chapter 39

I sleep almost the whole seven hours to Trondheim, and by the time I’m walking through the station, my headache has gone. I’ve got my sunglasses stuck up on my forehead, a duffel bag over my shoulder. My coat is unzipped, but it was snowing when the train pulled in. It’s going to be real winter out there.

            I step out the doors and—yeah, it’s winter. Blowing out a breath, I look down at the sidewalks. They’ve cleared the ice, which is good. Still, I’m nervous about my leg.

            Lifting my head, I squint to see if I can find Sonja.

            “Even!”

            There she is. Standing by her car, hood of her jacket up. She smiles, and even through the snow I can see those perfect teeth. I always teased her for them, and I can’t even remember how that joke started.

            I wave back, then set out across the lot. I lean on my cane, just to be sure of myself. I’m not falling and breaking anything 500 km from home.

            When I get near the car, Sonja comes to meet me. “Hey.”

            “Hey yourself.” I give her a one-armed hug, our winter clothing cushioning the embrace. “Did you make it snow just for me?”

            “Yes.” She leans back, arms still on me, giving me a look. The old concern. It’s just for a second, but no missing it. I don’t think there will ever be a time in our lives that Sonja doesn’t worry about me. Can’t say that I blame her. She was there for the ugly beginning, after all. Patting my arms, she nods to the car. “Get your things in, say hello.”

            I toss my bag in the trunk, then walk around the side of the car. I lean down to look in the window of the backseat. Big blue eyes look out of a pink face. “Hello,” I say. The baby blinks at me, and waves her arms.

            I get in the front seat. Sonja drops behind the wheel, slamming the door after herself. She shoves her hood back. “I hate driving in the snow. I hope you appreciate this.”

            We look at one another, appraising with a smile. “You cut your hair,” I say.

            She ruffles it up. “Yeah, I need to be low maintenance these days.”

            “I like it. I always liked when your hair was short. Also?” I nod to the back seat. “Have you seen that kid’s eyes? She’s obviously mine.”

            Sonja barks, pulling across her seatbelt. “God help us.” The baby makes a sort of giggling cooing noise, and Sonja glances in the rear-view. “Yes, sweetheart, we’re going.” She reaches for the drive, glancing at me. “Seatbelt.”

            “You’re such a mother,” I say, and put on my belt. Like I’d ever forget.

 

Sonja looks between Kjersti and I. “Have you done this before?” she asks with suspicion.

            I roll my eyes, holding out my hands. “I’m 26. You’re not the first of my friends to reproduce.”

            She transfers the baby to me, my fingers wrapping around this strange small thing’s ribcage. My thumbs touch in the middle of her chest, and I tap my fingers against her back. Kjersti stares at me with big eyes, unsure what to make of this new person. I would be too if a giant picked me up under the armpits.

            “I’m kidding,” I tell Sonja once I have the baby. “No one’s ever trusted me to hold their kid before.” Sonja gives me a hard look, and I laugh. “I’m teasing!” I turn my attention solely to Kjersti. “Hello.”

            She has strands of blond hair, pale as corn silk, laying across her head. Babies are such bizarre little creatures. Floppy and hardy and fragile all at the same time. I blow at her hair, and she screws up her face, shaking her head. I grin, and she smiles back.

            “Oh, I like her. She smiles.”

            Sonja flops back against the cushions, tossing her hair back from her eyes. “She smiles now, sure. When it’s just me and her, though—“ She reaches out, and Kjersti automatically grabs onto her hand with those impossibly tiny fingers.

            “Are you going crazy yet?”

            “Oh, crazy has come and gone,” Sonja says. “The world is very, very different. When I see someone I know, it’s like I can barely remember what life used to be like. What seems important to them—I mean, what seems important to me probably seems insane to them. Did I pack that extra diaper? If I didn’t pack the extra one, things are guaranteed to be an actual shit show. In public. I obsess about these things and other people are trying to talk to me about—normal people things, and I’m—I’m in baby land.” She jiggles her finger in Kjersti’s hand. “But that’s okay, isn’t it, little girl.”

            “Apparently you’ll be asking yourself where the time went soon enough.”

            “Apparently.”

            I sit Kjersti on my lap, still keeping hold of her. We continue gazing into one another’s eyes. She really is gorgeous. I wouldn’t expect any less from Sonja, of course. “How is Leif with her?”

            “Good. I mean—“ Sonja pulls her hand away, and props up her head. She’s wearing mismatched socks, which I never thought I’d see from her in a million years. “He comes home from work and makes her smile and then he goes to bed and goes back to work the next day. So there are times when I could strangle him. But…it was my choice. We talked about it, you know. If I’d stay home the first few months or if he would.”

            “Really.” If they had that discussion, it sure as hell wasn’t at his instigation.

            “Mm. But he’s been at his job longer, and he makes more, and this made more sense. It’s only a few more months, and I’ll be back at work. I don’t know whether to be excited or terrified.” I see her watching the baby from the corner of my eye. “I don’t like the idea of leaving her with strangers.”

            I lean my head towards Kjersti. “The last time I saw you,” I tell her, “you were inside another person. Do you know how weird that is?” She makes a grab from my nose, and I try to catch her fingers with my mouth. “I think that means yes.”

            “She likes you. Of course she likes you.”

            “What does that mean?”

            “Everyone likes you.”

            “That’s because they don’t know any better.” I lean back into the couch cushions, giving Kjersti soft bounces on my right leg while I look at Sonja. “I missed you.”

            She pokes my shoulder. Her nails have been done, even though they’re short. “I missed you.” She pauses, then says, “How are you feeling?”

            “You’ll have to be more specific.”

            “Everything. Anything. How’s your leg?”

            “Better.”

            “Does the cane help?”

            “It’s more dignified than a walker.” She frowns, and I say, “I’m kidding, I never used a walker. My leg’s good most days. It just starts to hurt if I’ve pushed myself.” I admit, “Sometimes it hurts for no reason at all. But I’ve started to do small trips without it.”

            “Why does it look like something from a haunted mansion?”

            Snorting, I say, “I traded my boring one for that one.”

            “Is it functional or does it just look good?”

            “Why can’t it be both?”

            “Even.”

            “You know, we’ve been broken up for seven years. You can stop worrying about me.”

            Sonja lets out a puff of air. “I think it’s been programmed into me. And everything else? Doing okay?”

            I nod. I’ve only just gotten here. I don’t need to go into detail. “What else is new with you?”

            Sonja groans, and grabs a blanket off the side of the couch. Throwing it over her legs, she says, “Even, I have a six-month-old. That’s all the new I’m allowed to have. I’m too tired for anything else.”

            After a moment, I glance at her. “And you? How are you feeling?”

            Sonja catches my eyes, and I see a hint of embarrassment. “Better.”

            “Good,” I say, because I’m not one to judge. “So? Do you want me to make dinner?”

            “God, why didn’t I marry _you_?” she says, and I laugh.

            We know the answer.

 

We don’t even get to the dinner table before I realize that Leif _really_ doesn’t want me here.

            When he came through the door and I was making dinner, Sonja sitting at the counter with the baby, he didn’t smile or anything. Just sort of jutted his chin at me, and said, “She put you to work, huh.”

            “Happy to help,” I said.

            He nodded, and left. I looked to Sonja, and she said, “Probably a long day.” But I’ve got a pretty good sense for when I’m not wanted.

            I made pasta alfredo with rosemary chicken. Just something basic that I could cook in my sleep. I set the table too, over Sonja’s objections. “You’re my guest,” she said.

            “I’m earning my keep.”

            Once everything was ready, Kjersti in her high chair, Sonja said, “I’ll go get him. Keep an eye on her for a second, okay?”

            So here I sit with the baby. She’s back to staring at me, so I reach over and tickle her sides. She lets out an incredible squeak. God, what must it be like to be so—new? To not know what’s happening around you, to not realize how sad you should probably be?

            “In a very different universe,” I confess to her in a whisper, “I’d be your dad.”

            I hear footsteps in the hall, so I sit back and dish myself some pasta.

            Leif is a few inches shorter than me, and a few years older. He’s a lawyer. Sonja met him through work. He’s good looking, I suppose. I’d never go for him. He’s always been a little too serious for my tastes.

            Sonja checks on Kjersti’s bib before sitting. “It all looks really good, Even.”

            “I hope it’s edible. If not, I think there’s still a train back to Oslo running tonight, if you need to run me out of town.”

            Leif just puts pasta on his plate.

            Okay—admittedly, it’s a little weird to have your wife’s ex-boyfriend from her teens over for the weekend. But I’ve never done what normal people do, and Sonja invited me. She’s asked me to come a few times now. So I know she wants me here. I didn’t think she’d have me come if her husband didn’t want me to. That would just make it awkward for all of us.

            Awkward family dinners for a whole new generation. Great.

            After thirty seconds of silence, I ask, “How’s work?”

            “Busy.”

            Oh boy. Should have asked more questions about Leif before agreeing to this. The last time I saw them was in Stockholm, and he was friendly enough then. Well, polite at least.

            Now I’m in his home. He probably didn’t expect that.

            I see Sonja giving him a look, but Leif doesn’t meet her eyes. “And you? What are you doing for money?”

            “Still on disability.”

            “How long have you been on that now?”

            So it’s going to be one of those talks. “This time, since the accident.”

            “You’re not able to sit at a desk?”

            “Leif,” Sonja says.

            He glances at her. “What?”

            I’m not here to cause trouble. I just wanted to see Sonja. For a lot of years, she wasn’t just my girlfriend, she was my best friend. So I try to change the topic. “When’s the last time you saw your parents?” I ask Sonja.

            “Oh—three weeks ago? They came up for a few days.”

            “Are they the same with Kjersti as they were with your niece?”

            “I have four nieces now, Even.”

            “The first one, the one I was there for. Your mom always made me sit down to look at pictures of her.”

            “Oh my God, I’d forgotten that. You know, she’s 11 now.”

            “No she’s not.”

            “She is!”

            “Good God, we’re getting old.”

            “To answer your question, they’re a little more calm than they were the first time, but they’re still over the top. I think Mom filled up the entire memory on her phone taking pictures.”

            I look to Leif and ask, “How about your parents?”

            He shrugs. “They’re just down the road, so it’s never a big deal when they come over.” He doesn’t look at me, just keeps putting food in his mouth.

            I catch Sonja’s eye. After a moment, she reaches over and touches his arm. “Long day at work?”

            It would be a good out. All he has to do is say yes. But instead he just gives his head a shake and says, “No.”

            Kjersti flaps her arms, smacking her hands against her tray a few times. I reach over and tickle behind her ear. She giggles, hitting the tray again. _Maybe you and I will just have to amuse one another, little one. I’m not sure about the adults_.

            “Last time we talked,” Sonja says, “you were working on a movie.”

            “Uh, that’s sort of up in the air. Long story. I left. I’ve been asked back, but—I’ve been writing a lot, and I might just decide to do my own thing for awhile.”

            “What have you been writing?”

            “A lot of short stories. I don’t know, if I get enough, maybe I could come up with a collection.” Leif makes a sound, and I glance at him. Yes, you don’t need to rub it in. I know you won’t think of it as real work. Not a lot of people do. But it’s what I’m capable of, and it means the world to me. “Have you been able to do any painting?”

            Sonja lifts her shoulders. “Well—the last few weeks I’ve tried getting back into it again. I have a canvas going, if you want to have a look at it later.”

            “Of course I would.” I nod to Kjersti. “And this one? What have we got her doing? Is she old enough for finger painting?”

            “Not quite yet. Give it a few more months and we’ll cover the fridge in Kjersti originals.” Sonja starts shaking her head. “Oh lord, I’m thinking of all the clothes I’ll have to put through the wash.”

            “Nah. Remember when I painted that skeleton?”

            Sonja pauses, trying to remember, then her eyes clear. She chuckles, remembering. She came over and I was stark naked, full blown manic, painting skeletons on the walls.

            “Well,” she says, picking up her fork. “That _is_ a solution.”

            “This writing that you do,” Leif says, and we both look at him. “Is that ever anything you’ve had published, or—?”

            So he’s going to just be a dick. I don’t do well with that. Confrontation, I tend to put my tail between my legs. “Yeah. I had a short story in a book. Mostly they’re in literary journals, things like that. I haven’t had my own book yet. The last few years have been—unpredictable.”

            “That short film you did won some awards, didn’t it,” Sonja says, and it’s kind of her to mention it. She always looks hurt whenever anything related to Isak comes up, even after all this time.

            “Yeah. I do okay.” Kjersti lets out a yell, and I turn to her. “Yes? What can we help you with?”

            Sonja holds up a spoon to her mouth, and Kjersti bats it away. Sonja sighs. “Come on, sweetheart.”

            “Do you want me to try—“

            “I’ve got it.” She slips the spoon into Kjersti’s mouth. The girl makes a terrible face, gumming at whatever the offending substance is. “There we go.”

            “What’s in that?”

            “I don’t know,” Sonja says, getting another spoonful. “But it’s a very awful shade of orange, isn’t it. I can’t believe myself when I give it to her.”

            “I’m sure it’s fine. Personally, when I have kids, I’ll feed them only orange mush.”

            Sonja smiles, but Leif lets out a bark that echoes around the kitchen. “You?” he says, stabbing at a piece of chicken. “You want kids?”

            An old ache. No. Not an ache. Like a piercing in my chest.

            Deflating, I pick at my pasta. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

            “Hmm.”

            “Leif,” Sonja says.

            “What?” he answers.

            “Stop it.”

            Shaking his head, Leif shrugs. “I’m just saying—“

            “Why shouldn’t he?” she challenges.

            He gives her a look that says, _you know why_ , and Sonja glares at him. Then Kjersti slaps a hand into her food, drawing Sonja’s attention. I don’t say much for the rest of the meal.


	40. Chapter 40

It’s not unreasonable. That someone bipolar has kids. I would not be the first in history.

            And of course I have all the worries that other people think I should have. Not being a good parent. Going too far up or too far down and not being able to care for them. Endangering them.

            Passing this fucking thing on to them.

            I’m not a fool, regardless of what other people think. Just because I get manic doesn’t mean I have no brain whatsoever. I am thinking, almost constantly. I think more than most people, truth be told, if observation is any indication. I’ve thought of all the reasons why I would make a terrible father.

            But I’ve also thought of why I would be a great father as well.

            I don’t care if other people don’t believe it. I know what would make me an excellent father. There wouldn’t be another person as accepting as me.

            Anything they felt like was an admission, I would barely flinch. _Dad, I’m asexual._ Don’t worry, that’s completely normal, and it doesn’t mean you won’t find someone, and if you’re not interested in finding someone, that’s okay too, because you have friends and family who adore you and always will. _Dad, I committed a crime._ Okay, first, I’m disappointed in your actions, but not you, never you, and we need to talk about why this happened so we can prevent it from happening again. _Dad, I know you think I’m a boy, but I’m actually a girl._ That’s fantastic—I’ve always wanted a daughter; what you wear or what name you choose or what pronouns you use will never affect how much I love you.

            _Dad, someone hurt me._ It wasn’t your fault, and if I look angry, it’s because I’m thinking of what I’ll do to the person who harmed you, but I will always be a safe place for you.

            _Dad, I think I’m crazy._ Don’t be scared—I understand and I’m listening and I will be here with you every single step of the way.

            _Dad, I hate you._

That’s fine. I hated my father too. But I love you and I’ll never stop and I will never, ever leave you.

            Deep breaths.

            I’m sitting on the back porch, bundled up in coat and scarf and boots. They live on the edge of the city, in the shadow of the hills. It’s a clear night. The city takes some of the radiance off the stars, but not nearly as much as Oslo would.

            The snow has stopped, leaving the world a blank page to be written on. I had to brush snow off this bench I’m sitting on, and hold to the wall as I walked because I left my cane inside. My leg is stretched out. I don’t know, maybe something about the cold is making it throb.

            Stuffing my hands further into my pockets, my eyes track the progress of a satellite. I wonder what it’s telling the world.

            The door cracks open. Sonja pops her head out. “There you are,” she says, relieved. She’s in her pajamas. It’s late, and the lights are off inside. I thought everyone was asleep.

            “Did you think I’d run away?”

            “I’ll be back.”

            A few minutes later, she returns in a parka and her PJ pants puffing out overtop of boots. Halfway to me, she slips on the ice, and I lunge forward, reaching for her. But Sonja catches herself. With an eye roll, she reaches the bench and brushes off a spot beside me before sitting.

            “I asked him three times this week to take care of the ice,” Sonja mutters.

            “Want me to do it?”

            “No, I’ll take care of it myself tomorrow.” She curls up into herself, pulling some flimsy gloves from her pockets. “I figured you’d be out here smoking.”

            “Me? No, that’s not something—okay, admittedly, I got high last night, but that’s the first time since just after Dad died.”

            “Really?”

            “Uh huh.”

            “Good for you.”

            “When’s the last time you—?”

            “I stopped when I found out I was pregnant. And now—I don’t want to mess with my medications, you know?”

            My bark echoes across the backyard. “I know all about that.”

            We sit in silence a little while. Which is strange. Sonja and I were never about silence. One of us would always be talking or we’d be doing something. It’s strange—I adored her for a long time, but I was never comfortable being quiet with her.

            “I, uh…” Sonja flips her hair away from her face. “I feel like I owe you an apology.”

            “It’s all right. It makes sense that Leif doesn’t like me.”

            She sighs. “Leif. Right. I need to apologize for that too.”

            “That wasn’t it?”

            “No, but—he’s insecure. He worries that he’s boring. You—are many things, but boring has never been one of them. He knows—a lot of the old stories. We were out with friends, just after we were married, and I got— _really_ drunk. God, I embarrassed myself. But I started telling stories about you, and we had so many good stories. They’re still some of the best stories I have. I don’t even remember all the ones I told, but he barely spoke to me for a week afterwards.”

            “He should grow up. We were just kids.”

            Sonja laughs softly. “That’s what I told him. We had a fight, and…you’ve sort of been a sore spot for him since then.”

            “So why’d you keep asking me to come up here? Are you trying to make him jealous?”

            Frowning, she shakes her head. “No. That’s not it.”

            I wait, but she just chews her lip. “So…”

            “I wanted to see you. I thought you’d…I knew you’d understand what I was going through. And I needed to apologize too.”

            “You don’t need to apologize for anything,” I say, even though I’m not 100% sure what she means. Maybe 73%.

            Sonja pulls at the fabric of her gloves. “I love her,” she says after a moment. “Of course I love her. It just…it didn’t feel like everyone said it would. Everyone says ‘you’ll be so happy,’ and I…”

            She can’t continue. So I reach over, offering my hand. Sonja looks at it a few seconds, then puts her hand in mine. I wrap my fingers around hers and squeeze.

            “There’s nothing wrong with not being happy,” I murmur. “Sometimes it just happens.”

            “It’s different. It was supposed to be the happiest moment of my life. Christ, Even—I didn’t even want to touch her.”

            “That happens too. You’re not the only one.”

            “I knew you’d say that,” Sonja says quietly. “I knew you’d understand. Everyone else…they got so frustrated or scared or—even angry. And I finally got it. After all these years, I finally understood what it was like to be you.”

            “Sucks, doesn’t it.”

            “Wasn’t fun, that was for damn sure. People would just say, stop feeling like this, and it’s like they were the crazy ones. How do you stop—feeling? How do people think that’s something you can do? And I remembered feeling that way about you and I felt like shit.”

            “Don’t feel too bad. We might—share something around the edges, but it’s not the same. I’ll always be like this, and I’ve never been great at trying to improve that. You’ve had a rough patch, and you’re working hard to come back from it. It might never even happen to you again. But if it does, that’s okay too.”

            “Are you saying what you wish I’d said to you?”

            I shake my head with a laugh. “No. With me, there’s no chance the bad times won’t come again. I’m just telling you the truth.”

            After a moment, Sonja rests her head on my shoulder. If her husband saw this, I think he’d throw me in a snowbank. Still, there’s part of me that’s a bit smug—I know her in a way he never will.

            “One time,” she says, “I didn’t shower for a week.”

            “My record is 24 days.”

            She makes a sound of disgust, but I can see her smile from the corner of my eye. “Leif’s mother had to hold my arms up to shave my armpits.”

            “That was a priority?”

            “To her it was.”

            “I once found a spider on the bed and just left it there. I named it Alfred. It made this huge web and everything. Eventually it started to catch flies. I’d name the flies at first, but I stopped after the first couple. I think it’s like when you live on a farm and name the pigs for slaughter. Not a good idea if you’re sentimental.”

            Sonja’s lifted her head. She narrows her eyes, then snorts. “You still make up the most ridiculous stories.”

            She lets go of me, and I drop my jaw in mock offense. “I’m telling you about one of my dark moments of depression and that’s your reaction? To tell me I’m a liar?”

            “I’ve known you since we were seven years old. I know when you’re making something up.”

            “Jesus. That’s almost twenty years.”

            “Don’t remind me.” Sonja drops her head on my shoulder again. “Do you ever wish you could go back?”

            Not for a hundred million kronor. “Not really.”

            “Things were simpler. When we were younger.”

            “For you, maybe.”

            “True enough. I guess I worry that I’ll be one of those people whose life peaked in school. I really liked school. You hated it, though.”

            “Absolutely.”

            “They always say that those are the people who do best out in the real world.”

            Arching a brow, I say, “Does it seem like I’m doing great out in the real world?”

            “Well…”

            “Yeah, exactly. Listen, you have a career, and a husband, and a kid, and a house, and those are all things you’ve always wanted. If it’s not enough—find more.”

            “You make it sound so simple.”

            “Of course it’s not simple. Simple’s a lie. Like forgiveness.”

            “Wow.”

            “Something my mom said.”

            “Your mom always had gems like that. You’ll say hi to her, right?”

            “I will. Say hi to your parents for me,” I reply, giving her a nudge.

            She smiles crookedly. Old joke. Her parents grew increasingly less fond of me over the years. By the end of our relationship, her dating me was basically just a teenage act of rebellion. “I wonder who she’ll end up dating,” Sonja says. “In fifteen years…it seems like so far away, and it doesn’t. I wonder what she’ll do. Who she’ll be. It scares me.”

            “Don’t be scared. At least too much. She’s got you. And Leif. And plenty of other people. Everything will be okay. It won’t always be okay. It just won’t, because that’s not how things work. But a lot of the time, more than you think, it’ll be okay.”

            Sonja tucks a strand of hair back behind her ear. “I’m really glad you came.”

            “I’m really glad you invited me.”

            We look at each other. And she’s right there, and I feel like it, so I kiss her.

            She shoves me back.

            Oh no.

            Sonja stares at me in disbelief. “What the hell are you—“

            I put my hands up. “Sorry—“

            “Even, I’m _married_. I love my husband. I didn’t ask you to come up here to—“

            “No, of course not, I wasn’t thinking—“

            “Of course you weren’t,” Sonja says, getting to her feet. She storms towards the house, shaking her head. “Why do you always do this? Why do you always have to ruin things?”

            She slams the door after herself.

            Well. Fucked that up, didn’t I.

 

Twenty minutes later, when I get myself up off the bench, feeling like an idiot, I put my hand on the wall to support myself as I head inside. Don’t know what the rest of the weekend will look like. Not after this new development.

            Why do I do these things? She’s right. It was nice, we were having a nice conversation, and then I just—ruined it. It’s not like I wanted anything from her. She’s my friend, and I’ve missed her, and it was a good moment, so I kissed her. It didn’t mean anything more to me than that. I felt connected to her.

            How I feel isn’t an indicator of how other people feel. I forget that.

            I’m barely inside the house when I see a dark shape speeding at me. I have just a second to pull back, then I’m getting punched in the eye.

            I gasp, clutching the half open door. My leg, I need to keep my leg away—

            Leif grabs the front of my coat in his left hand and he’s punching me in the face again and again like someone who knows what he’s doing. Sonja’s yelling, and I think she’s trying to pull him off, but I don’t really know what’s going on.

            All I can think is that it’s nice to finally get hurt because I deserve it.


	41. The Douglas Fir

_Stories have different morals depending on perspective. Take, for instance, David Douglas._

_I learned his story when I was pretty young, and made a film out of it when I was twelve. I spent days painstakingly moving figurines, filming one second at a time. When I was finished, I ran to get my mother and sat her down on the couch to play it for her._

_The scene is as follows: Based On a True Story. A title card lets the audience know that David Douglas was a botanist who preferred to go out into the field, unlike the other botanists of his time, who had samples sent back to them instead of daring to go outdoors. Then we see a man—convincingly played by a GI Joe—come walking through the forest. He’s looking up at the trees. He doesn’t see a huge pit in front of him, and falls in. After a ten second beat, a bull comes along and falls in too. We hear a blood curdling scream (contributed by my amused father). The End._

_Mom let out a sharp bark, then got up. “Okay, Even.”_

_“What?” I protested. “It’s funny.”_

_She kissed the top of my head. “That’s a lot of work for a gag, kid. Stories need a point.”_

_“The point is not to fall into a hole.”_

_She walked away, laughing and shaking her head, and I moved onto the next project._

_I didn’t even think of it again for years, until I was living in Stockholm and Dad found a bunch of my old stuff. He emailed it to me, and I went through my childhood short films, cracking myself up. That night, when I was out with my friends at the bar, I showed them the David Douglas one._

_Asvald spit his beer across the table, and nearly everyone jumped away. Mats was curled up under my arm on the opposite side and I heard him mutter, “Ugh,” but Asvald was laughing as hard as I’d ever seen him._

_“You were always a weird little fuck, weren’t you,” he said with appreciation. I shrugged, putting my phone away, and pulling Mats closer to me. Asvald nodded to me as the others were trying to wipe beer off the table. “You know what the moral of the story is, right?”_

_“What do you think it is?”_

_“That dreamers like you fall into holes and get gored to death.”_

_“He always sees the bright side, doesn’t he,” Mats sighed as we got home later that night._

_I didn’t even have to ask who he meant. “I don’t think he’d know what to do with it. Did you like my movie?”_

_Mats pulled on my collar, bringing me down for a kiss. “It was very you, honey.” He let me go and went to turn on the lights in the living room._

_I watched him, hands in my pockets, then I asked, “What do you think the moral of the story is?”_

_“Which story?”_

_“The guy falling into the hole.”_

_“Are you making fun of me?”_

_It was a question he asked me a lot, and I just shook my head. “No, sweetheart. I really want to know. Put that literature degree to some use and tell me what the moral of the story should be.”_

_He gave a little frown of exasperation, then put his hands on his hips. After a moment’s thought, Mats said, “There’s no point in only looking in one direction. You can’t just look back or up or down. You have to be aware of where you came from, where you’re going, and where you are.”_

_“Or you’ll fall in a hole.”_

_“Or you’ll fall in a hole,” he conceded._

_The last time I was in the hospital, long after he and I were broken up, I thought about that a lot. You can’t only look back. You can’t only look forward. You can’t live in the present as if the other two have no bearing on your life. You have to be aware._

_You have to live in past, present, and future at once, with clear eyes._

_Meanwhile, other people will make their own morals. That’s when you know it’s a good story._


	42. Chapter 42

Pinning the phone between my ear and shoulder, I say, “Question.”

            “Answer? Hi, by the way.”

            “Hi. So I know this might seem sexist, but I ask this not because of your gender, only because I know you have years of theater experience and also you wear makeup.”

            Mette says, “You always have the best conversation starters.”

            I lean towards the mirror, carefully putting an omega knot into my tie. “Is there any last minute tricks you know to keep bruises from being—really obvious?”

            There’s a long pause.

            “Who the fuck hit you?” she finally says.

            “Nobody hit me. I fell down some stairs. I walked into a door. I’m clumsy. Whatever. But seriously. My mother wants me to come over for dinner and she’s not taking no for an answer. I have like ten more minutes before I have to go.”

            “Jesus. If you’d called me like 2 hours ago, I could have figured out something, but you’re on your own.”

            “I thought as much. Knew it couldn’t hurt to ask, though.”

            “Why’d you only call me now?”

            I raise a brow. “I looked in the mirror and realized what my mother would see.”

            My left eye is outlined in purple. My cheekbone is bruised. There’s a cut in my lower lip. It’s been a few days, so the worst is past, but I haven’t really seen anyone since I came home early from Trondheim. The last time I had bruises on my face was the car accident, and I’d forgotten how long they took to completely disappear.

            “Seriously, Even, what happened?”

            “I’m afraid to tell you. It could end up in a script.”

            “That’s—hilarious. Thanks for that.”

            “Get used to it. You’ll be hearing that for the rest of our lives.”

            “You’re still coming out with us next weekend, right?”

            “Yeah, what the hell. My face should probably be a 100% by then.”

            “Even—“

            “Gotta go. I have to mentally prepare for my mother worrying over me for a few hours. Talk to you later.”

            I’ve hung up before she can even fully say goodbye. I toss the phone on the back of the toilet, and start messing with my hair.

            I’m dressed nicely. Might as well make up for my face. It isn’t bad. It hurt like hell in the moment, but it’s only the left side of my face, and it just looks bad because I’m so pale that the purple stands out. My eye and lip aren’t swollen anymore. Getting back to normal. I’m wearing grey slacks and a dark blue shirt, with a black tie. I’ll toss my dark grey sweater on as well.

            Not like it’ll distract her for a moment. But it’ll make me feel better.

            Making her worry again. I really need to start keeping a tally to figure out how to someday make it all equal.

            That, though, would take until the end of time.

 

My leg doesn’t hurt at all today. It’s a nice change. It’s felt pretty good ever since I came back from Trondheim. Go figure.

            I get off the tram, and head down the side street. Mom’s not too far from major transportation routes, which is nice. I lean lightly on the cane, more from habit than anything else tonight.

            I don’t know why she was so keen on me coming to dinner tonight. It’s only been—what, a week and a half? When she called today, though, she wasn’t taking no for an answer. My excuses were all weak, and I think she could tell. Maybe she dug in her heels because she could tell I was trying to hide something.

            Do I tell her? I’m not sure. _Mom, I screwed up again, only this time I got punched in the face for it. What’d I do? Well, I kissed my ex, who’s married and has a baby._

            I won’t be invited back north any time soon, that’s for damn sure. First thing the morning after Leif hit me, Sonja drove me to the station in complete silence. When we got there, I tried to say goodbye, but she just said, “Get out of the car.” I didn’t push. I just got out and she drove away.

            I’m not sure if she’ll ever want to see me again. I know I did something wrong, but I feel like I don’t quite understand what it is. I know I shouldn’t have kissed someone who’s married, but I didn’t even do it in a sexual way. I just wanted to kiss her, so I did. They were both so pissed at me. I think that if Leif hadn’t beaten me up, Sonja might have.

            People. I don’t understand them. I probably never will.

            There’s a group of teenagers coming down the street, so I slip into the alley. Not like I’m worried about them or anything, but rather than do the awkward shuffle. I remember, when I was their age, I was so careless about my body. I wish I could be that way again, but I don’t know that I ever will be.

            I’m a few steps into the alley when the first snowflake hits my nose. I sigh, then shake my head with a smile. Makes sense. It’s December, after all.

            I unlatch the back gate, then walk along the path Mom has shovelled. It’s strange to think of her doing that. It was always my job. Even after I moved out, I’d come back after it snowed to take care of the walks. It was a way for me to take care of her.

            The light is on over the back step. I take my keys out, unlocking the door. Oh wow—the kitchen smells amazing. What is she making?

            Locking the door behind myself, I call, “Mom, I’m here. Whatever this is, I want the recipe.”

            “Why are you coming in the back?”

            I shuck out of my coat, hanging it and my cane on one of the hooks by the door. “Roving gangs of rabid chimpanzees on the streets tonight.”

            “You’re so funny,” she says, rounding the corner. Huh. She looks really nice. A grey cowled blouse over a darker grey skirt. Pearl earrings.

            Wait—is she going to introduce me to someone? Does she have a boyfriend? Suddenly this evening makes so much more sense.

            Predictably, Mom stops cold when she sees me. “Jesus!” she yelps.

            I lift my hands as she swoops across the kitchen. “I’m fine—“

            She takes my face in her hands, tilting my head to the side for a better look. “How did this happen? Did this happen when you were up north?”

            “Mm,” I respond, letting her maneuver my head around. I give her another moment, then gently push her hands down. “Mom, I’m fine. Just a fight.”

            “You don’t get in fights,” Mom says, quite rightly. I tend to avoid physical confrontation at all cost. “Did Leif do that?”

            “Mama—“

            “He did! That little shit!” She points at me, eyes ablaze. “That little prick ever shows his face in this city, I’ll _gut_ him.”

            I start to laugh. “Mama—“

            And I see Isak standing in the doorway.

            We stare at each other for a few seconds. By the time I remember that words are a thing I can use, I realize I wouldn’t know the correct ones.

            Mouth working, Isak says, “Are you okay?”

            I raise my brows and look down at my mother. She’s blushing, caught out. Avoiding my gaze, Mom says, “I invited Isak for dinner.”

            Voice even, I respond, “I can see that.”

            Swiping a hand over her skirt, Mom steps away. “I have to finish up in here. You boys go to the den for a few minutes.”

            Isak presses his lips together, moving back. I’m staring at my mother. “I need to have a word with you.”

            Mom waves me away. “No you don’t.”

            “I really do—“

            “Want to tell me what really happened to your face?”

            I sigh. I leave the kitchen, but instead of the den, I bound upstairs to my old room. I swear to God, one day the past will fucking drown me.

 

When Selma picks up the phone, she sounds a little confused. “Hello?”

            “Hi.”

            “Hey. Is—everything okay?”

            I’m sitting on the edge of the tub, bent over with my elbows on my knees. The tile on the floor has been changed since I was a teenager.

            “Could you tell me a story?” I ask.

            “Me?”

            “Yeah. I think it’s your turn.”

            “I’m…not really good at telling stories, Even.”

            “It’s okay. Anything, really.”

            “Well…okay. What kind of story?”

            “Maybe…about a time where he really didn’t want to be somewhere, but he had to be. Like a dinner or party or something.”

            I can hear her thinking on the other end of the line. “Okay…okay. So it was my mother’s birthday, and he and Dad hadn’t spoken in like three months. I spent weeks talking him into coming. Mom told me not to. She wanted him to be there, but she knew what he could be like if he was stuck somewhere he didn’t want to be. But I thought it was important that he be there. So I finally got him to promise to show up. And he didn’t say a single word.”

            “Silent treatment?”

            “Nothing. Even when he came through the door, he wouldn’t say hi. He wouldn’t smile. He just glared at all of us and sat at the table. Mom was able to just brush it off, but Dad got madder and madder. Finally he threw a roll at him. And Asvald caught it in his mouth.”

            “Nice.”

            “Dad started yelling, and Mom was yelling at him for ruining things, and he was saying it wasn’t him, it was Asvald who was ruining things. And Asvald just sat there, eating his roll. Dad finally stormed off and I was crying, and it was such a mess.” She sighs and says, “Not a very good story.”

            “It’s just what I needed to hear.”

            “Are you trapped somewhere?”

            “Yeah. But I suppose if I don’t make anyone—or myself—cry, we can consider it a success. I’ll let you get back to things. Thanks, Selma.”

            “Of course. Take care.”

            “You too. Bye.”

            I hang up, pushing the phone into my back pocket. Getting up, I stand in front of the mirror. I adjust my tie and run my hands over my hair. I look just fine. Bruises and all.

            When I open the door, Isak is waiting outside. I step aside, as if I believe he was waiting to use the bathroom. Clearing his throat, he says, “Your mom said you were out of the city. I didn’t know you’d be here. If you want, I can go.”

            I shrug, like it’s nothing to me. “Doesn’t matter to me.”

            I head towards the stairs, and he says, “Even.”

            “Don’t keep Mom waiting,” I say over my shoulder. “Dinner smells like it should be good.”


	43. Chapter 43

It’s very quiet. The clank of utensils and me trying not to chew too loud. Christ, I can’t wait until all the lithium is drained from my system and I’m not so painfully aware of when things are awkward.

            I have another bite of chicken tikka masala. Mom’s taken a class. I really will have to get the recipe.

            I’m seated across from Isak. He is trying to focus on his plate. He’s wearing an olive green sweater that’s actually quite nice. I wonder who picks his clothes. It’s not him.

            Mom takes a deep breath. Here comes another attempt at conversation. “How was the train?” she asks me.

            “Good.”

            I have no idea what she thought she was doing. I didn’t tell her that Isak and I weren’t talking. But she’s obviously trying to force us into a situation together. It’s obnoxious, but honestly I’m a bit impressed. It’s like something from the plot of a movie. I guess I’m wearing off on her a little.

            “View good?” she tries.

            I catch her eye, and she smiles at me sideways. “Spectacular,” I reply.

            “Isak!” Mom says, and he lifts his head, eyes wide. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

            I can see the fear in his eyes. That she’s going to ask him to come around for the holidays, and he’s already asking himself what he’s gotten into. “Um—I’m going to my dad’s place. I’ll see my mom too.”

            “How are they?”

            “Fine.”

            “And your stepmother?”

            “Good.” He swallows, knowing that he should be giving more than one word answers. “She’s good.”

            “Is your stepsister coming in for the holidays?”

            “No, she’s going to her girlfriend’s.”

            “That’s nice.”

            “What are—you two doing?”

            I pick up my water glass, raising my brows at Mom. She sits back, looking at me. “Hors d’oeuvres? Movie marathon? Pajamas?”

            I nod, and say, “Remember, Christmas market.”

            “How could I forget?”

            Mom looks between us. I can fake normal; after all, I’ve been doing that at least a decade. Isak is at a disadvantage. He’s always had such an open face. I could read him like a book from the first time I caught him watching me at school.

            I see a change on Mom’s face. It’s something crafty and determined. The only question is who it will be aimed at.

            Acting nonchalant, Mom says, “So Isak—are you still dating that old man?”

            Isak chokes on his mouthful. He almost spits it up, but manages to swallow, a fist to his mouth and coughing.

            Interesting. He said he wasn’t seeing anyone.

            Mom looks unconcerned. “Are you okay, sweetheart?’

            “Mm.” He’s pink in the cheeks and that amuses me. He takes a long drink of water, then finds us both watching him. “I wasn’t—I told you, we weren’t dating.”

            “Oh, fine then. Are you still banging that old man?”

            He turns to me, but oh no. I’m not digging him out. This is too much fun. I smile and wait for him to continue being flustered.

            Isak pauses, then says, “He is not old, and no, that ended in the summer.”

            “Was he old?” I ask Mom.

            She rolls her eyes, reaching for the wine. “Mid forties, at least.”

            My jaw drops in delight as Isak protests, “He only turned 40 last month.”

            Mom leans towards me and confides, “One of his supervisors.”

            “The scandal,” I gasp.

            Isak shakes his head at us. “So this is what’s going to happen here? You’re both going to gang up on me.”

            “Absolutely,” I reply as Mom says, “We’re not ganging up on you.”

            “Uh huh.”

            “What,” I tease, “are you going to ask my mother when she last hooked up with someone inappropriate?”

            Isak recoils. “No, of course not—“

            I look at Mom and raise a brow. After a moment, she bursts out laughing. “You must be joking.”

            “It’s your punishment for tricking me.”

            She sits back, considering it. Then she snorts. “Fuck it, you’re both adults. Someone inappropriate?”

            “Mm.” I’m interested. I’m not one of those people who refuse to believe their parents are humans with a wide range of experiences. Isak looks somewhere between repulsed and curious.

            Mom suddenly covers her face, with one hand. I can see a blush creeping outwards from behind her fingers. “Oh no.”

            “Now you _have_ to say,” I insist.

            Dropping her hand, Mom looks up at the ceiling, like something there would give her strength. “So…God, I hope you don’t remember this, but…right after you turned eighteen, you saw this therapist for one session. And he was so awful that—“ She lifts a hand. “It wasn’t good.”

            It hits me. “The one who said I needed to accept that Dad leaving was my fault?”

            “Shit. You do remember.”

            “Not _him_.”

            “It’s not like I meant to. Like a week later, I was driving by his office, and he was walking to the car, and I was so livid I pulled in and got out to give him a piece of my mind. And—it was inexplicable. One minute I’m screaming at him, and the next we’re in the backseat of his car—“

            Isak groans and laughs at the same time. Even I can’t take it, dropping my head in my hands. “No. No no no.”

            “I cannot believe I just told you that. I’ve never told anyone. That’s one of those mother failures you’re supposed to take to the grave. Screwing your kid’s shitty shrink in the back of a sedan.”

            Then we’re all giggling. We can’t help ourselves. It gets worse and worse until Isak’s hiccuping and Mom’s turned sideways in her seat, an arm wrapped around herself. I can’t even see at all, because when I laugh hard enough, my eyes close.

            I don’t know about them, but I laugh until my ribs ache, and it feels amazing. I used to laugh like this a lot, only it feels like it’s been a long time.

            Once I’ve wiped my eyes and caught my breath, I force myself to sit upright, still snickering. Mom and Isak are in similar condition.

            “Fair’s fair,” Isak says to me. Some of his curls have fallen across his forehead.

            “Me?” I reply. I shake my head, locating my fork. It’s dropped off my plate and onto the table. I wipe it off with my napkin. “I’ve never slept with anyone inappropriate.”

            Mom and Isak let out twin resounding barks.

            Without missing a blink, I finish, “I’m always the inappropriate one that people sleep with.”

            Mom scoffs, but Isak says, “I’ll buy that.” I look to him and he grins. Cheeky bastard.

            “The real test,” I say. “What’s the last movie you each watched?”

            Isak cringes and Mom says, “I’ve been working my way through a collection of Bergman’s documentary shorts.”

            Isak looks even more put out. “What lowbrow nonsense is your answer?” I tease.

            He shrugs, admitting, “I can’t even remember. Last time I was in a theatre was some superhero thing in the summer. So go ahead. Tell us what impressive thing you’re watching.”

            “Mm, this afternoon I watched _Haxan_.” Isak lets out a massive groan, accompanied by an eye roll. I raise my brows, genuinely surprised. “What?”

            “You made me watch that so many times.”

            “I did not!”

            “Every six months. Like clockwork.”

            “That’s not a lot!”

            “It is if you’re not obsessed with movies. And then in my graduate studies, I had to watch it _again_.” Isak shudders, not realizing how unreasonable he’s being.

            “It’s a _brilliant_ movie.”

            “Yeah? That whole final part, about ‘little women with hysteria’ being modern day witches?”

            “Well, it’s a hundred years old, of course it will be outdated—“ Isak looks to Mom, like he’s won, and I protest to her, “It’s a masterpiece.”

            “I’ve never seen it,” she says.

            I light up. “We could watch it tonight! Or make it part of our Christmas marathon.”

            Isak’s shaking his head. “Run,” he tells Mom. “Leave the house. Take to the streets.”

            “You’re still so melodramatic,” I say in exasperation.

            He plays with his food a moment, then looks at me from beneath his brows. “You still make people watch movies for the technical elements and ignore the problems with them.”

            “I do not.” I glance between them. “When do I do that?”

            This time they roll their eyes in perfect synchronicity. “German expressionism,” Isak mutters.

            Mom’s head flops back. “ _Der Golem_.”

            “ _Nosferatu_.”

            “What’s wrong with them?” I protest.

            “Oh, I don’t know,” Mom says. “The rampant antisemitism?”

            “Well—“

            “Bertolucci,” Mom says to Isak, already moving on.

            He drops his fork. “Jesus, I’d forgotten. I’m having flashbacks.”

            “He’s a genius—“ I try and explain to them.

            Mom fixes me with a glare. “He facilitated an actual sexual assault on screen.”

            “Well—yes. He did that.”

            “And don’t get me started about you and Von Trier—“

            I put my hands up in surrender. “I’m over Von Trier.” They eye me suspiciously. After a moment, I crack. “But _Breaking the Waves_ —“

            “Flashbacks,” Isak repeats. “I have movie related PTSD.”

            “You think it’s bad?” Mom answers. “I’ve been fighting this battle for decades.”

            Deflating, I think of all the times I was so excited to share a film with them. Have they really always been miserable? I thought they liked to watch movies with me.

            But Isak says, “I’m not one to talk. I like the _Transformers_ movies.”

            Mom starts gagging, and I grin. “How many of those did you make me sit through?”

            “Oh—six or seven?”

            “And they’re still making them. I’ve had four years without _Transformers_ movies. Good years.”

            “You don’t actually like them,” Mom says to Isak, aghast.

            “I do,” he says with a bit of perverse glee. I shake my head. “They’re fun. They’re brainless. Things blow up for a few hours. I’m not above that.”

            “It all started because of his crush on Shia Lebouf,” I interject. Isak shrugs, not denying it. Then I brighten. “ _Speaking_ of Von Trier—“

            “Oh God,” Isak groans and Mom throws a piece of naan at me.

 

Isak hands me a glass, and I rub a dishcloth over it. Mom, in continued meddling fashion, has banished us to the kitchen to do the dishes while she watches TV. Fair, of course—I would have done the dishes regardless—but she really is intent on forcing me into close contact with Isak.

            We haven’t said much, now that we’re alone. Dinner was good. Once we made each other laugh, everything was good. Really good, actually. Everyone was happy and it seemed natural. It stopped being awkward and it was just—like it used to be.

            Now that it’s just us, though, it’s obviously returned to awkward.

            “So did she just call you up and invite you?” I ask.

            “No, there’s this café by my place. I’m in there every morning getting coffee. Sometimes she’s there. I saw her today and she asked if I wanted to come over. It had been awhile, so…” Isak presses his lips together, furrowing his brows. “Is that all right?”

            I think about it. I mean, I don’t have to really think about it. Mom was right. Just because Isak and I ended doesn’t mean she was under any obligation to shut off all feelings for him.

            “If it makes her happy,” I say, “just about anything is all right.”

            “I didn’t think she’d, uh—lie.”

            I snort, putting the glass into the cabinet. “No, I came to the habit by pure coincidence. Please. If you didn’t think my mother could be nefarious, you haven’t been paying attention.”

            Isak nods, passing me a plate. It’s inevitable, that I’d think of all the times in the old apartment that we’d do chores together. Standing at our little sink, arms pressed together as we did the dishes, Isak protesting that he couldn’t scrub anything if he couldn’t move his arm.

            I didn’t even realize that we’d fallen into our old positions. Him washing, me drying.

            “So,” I say, “this old man you were dating.” Isak’s head falls back on his shoulders. “Sorry, hooking up with.”

            “I should have never mentioned anything to her,” he mutters, scrubbing at a plate viciously. “I can’t even remember how it happened.”

            “You don’t think it’s weird, you telling my mother about some old guy you were having sex with?”

            Exasperated, Isak says, “I did not—I did _not_ put it like that. And if you want to talk about weird, asking your mother about someone inappropriate that she had sex with is _way_ weirder.”

            I give it a second, then say, “So this old guy—“

            “Jesus Christ. Okay, fine. He’s just a guy at work. Nice. Nice to look at. It happened. He met someone his own age, it stopped happening. That’s about it.”

            His ears are turning red. I have to fight not to smile. “Dumped because you’re too young. Wow.”

            “Not dumped, we weren’t dating. I know what you’re doing, stop it.”

            “I’m not doing anything. You said he was one of your supervisors?”

            “Oh my God. Yes, it wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done. Okay? You want to keep doing this, because if we do, I’m turning that lens back on you.”

            “I own my bad choices.”

            “Aren’t you special,” Isak mutters.

            I laugh. “Aren’t I just. You take the bad choices, you throw some glitter on them, you make it into a story. Easy.”

            Isak shakes his head, chewing on his lower lip. He finally gets the residue off the plate, giving it a rinse. “So…your mom said you aren’t working on the movie anymore?”

            “Uh…no.”

            “What happened there?”

            I shake some of the excess water off the plate. “It got a little much. How much of my story was being used. Like I said, you take your bad choices and make a story. It’s not the same if someone else takes it and makes it into their own.” I reconsider. “I mean…it was flattering at first. But…there were rewrites I didn’t know about, and Mette put something in that was private. We didn’t talk for awhile.”

            “That’s too bad. You seemed really excited about it.”

            “I was. Guess I learned a lesson. My story is mine. Better to only trust myself with it.”

            “What about the rest of us? The ones who aren’t storytellers? Who tells our story?”

            “Oh, you people just die in obscurity.” Isak flicks water at me, and I turn away, yelping. “No! My shirt! My beautiful new shirt!”

            “It’s not new. I’ve seen you wear it before.”

            Arching a brow, I say, “Paying attention to what I wear?”

            “No. I just—remembered it.”

            I glance down at myself. “It’s not exactly memorable.”

            “You’re right. I guess not.”

            I nod, not sure where to go from there. I put the plate away, then stand on tiptoes. “Uh oh. Don’t tell Mom, but these top shelves really need to be dusted.”

            “Well, you’re right there.”

            “You know me. I’m scatter brained. I can do one or the other. I can help with dishes or dust the cupboards. You really want to be left all alone to do these dishes?”

            “You’re ridiculous,” Isak says.

            That makes me a little proud. “I am.”

            He smiles, and passes me some forks.

 

I hang back as Mom gets up from the chair to hug Isak. “Thank you for coming over, sweetheart. It was good to see your face.”

            “Thanks for dinner,” he says, and kisses her cheek.

            That gets me. It’s such an adult thing to do. I try and think of Isak, 17-years-old, just casually kissing someone on the cheek as he said goodbye. The image doesn’t process. He would have thought he was too cool.

            He’s not the same person he used to be. Weird, that such a small gesture should drive that point home.

            “Not upset with me?” Mom murmurs, rubbing his back.

            Isak steps back with a raised brow. “No,” he sighs. “But you should know your son called you nefarious.”

            “Traitor,” I say, but quietly. I think I’m still thrown by the realization that years have passed. I know that intellectually, of course, but sometimes it just hits.

            Isak turns around, and catches my eye for a moment. He pauses—is it something about my face? Am I suddenly an open book? But he smiles crookedly, politely, then heads into the hallway. I step aside so he can get by.

            He goes to the door to pull on his boots, and I lean against the doorway. Years. How do these things happen?

            I realize Mom is doing something with her head. I frown at her, and she nods emphatically towards where Isak is on the other side of the wall. God, I don’t know what it is she wants, but I know enough to feel a bit bad. So I push off the wall and make to follow as he unlocks the door.

            “I’ll walk you out,” I say.

            Isak pauses, one hand on the knob, the other tugging at his hood. “Okay,” he says, surprised. He slips out the door, glancing back. “You going to do that without shoes?”

            “Apparently,” I answer. “Mom’s wouldn’t exactly fit me.” They actually look like doll’s shoes next to my feet. I get to the front step and wow, it’s cold. I pull the door over behind myself, standing in my sock feet, not wanting to let in the winter. Wrapping my arms around myself, I try to figure out my next move.

            Isak’s car is parked out front. If I’d gone through the front door, I would have seen it and never walked in. And…I think that would have been a shame.

            Isak stands on the walk, doing up the buttons of his jacket. “So—that was good.”

            I nod. “Yeah. I’m…glad we did that.”

            He nods a little, then grins. “You should go back in. You’re too skinny for this weather.”

            “Fuck off, I am not—well, I am, but—“ I rub my hands over my arms. “I’m fine.”

            Isak winds his scarf around his neck several times, looking up at me with his head tilted. He gives another nod, then steps back. “Okay, I should get going.”

            “Home to watch some terrible Michael Bay movie.”

            “Absolutely.”

            “I knew it.”

            “No—I don’t know. I don’t feel like heading home yet. Maybe I’ll go out and find some trouble.”

            “What does trouble even look like for you anymore? You’re all grown up and responsible. Trouble for you probably means having tea at 9 and reading a science journal.”

            “I get into trouble.”

            “You do not,” I laugh.

            Isak admits, “Maybe not like I used to. But I wasn’t all that smart when I was younger.”

            “No. You made _terrible_ decisions.”

            He looks at me and says, “They weren’t all that bad.”

            What have I been so angry about?

            Isak lets out a sudden laugh, and says, “I know what I’m going to do.”

            “Hit me. What really terrible trouble are you going to get into?’

            “None. I’m going to go to Vigeland Park. I haven’t been in years, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since you mentioned it, but since you wouldn’t _invite_ me—“

            “It’s a public space. You don’t need to be invited.”

            Isak shrugs, taking another step away. “That’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to go wander around and look at weird sculptures and get cultured and all that shit.”

            I say, “Can I come too?”

            It’s like there’s a strange tilt to the air. Like I’ve just lurched without even moving. The two of us, trapped in this little bubble moment, and it seems like life could go one way or another.

            It only lasts a second. Isak blinks, then says, “Yeah. Of course.”

            And now I’m trying to find balance and I think he is too. I’ve just upended things, haven’t I. What are we doing now?

            Like I can’t believe I’m speaking, I say, “I’ll just go get my things.”

            “Yeah. Probably need shoes.”

            I try to reply, but I can’t come up with anything, so I just go inside to get my outdoor things and cane.


	44. Chapter 44

I make a bold decision.

            I leave the cane in the car.

            Isak doesn’t notice. The ground is covered in fresh snow, and there’s no telling what lurks beneath it. I haven’t gone for a long walk in the snow since before the accident, not without my cane.

            But I feel like being bold, like trying something. So when we park, I leave the cane in the backseat, and stick my hands in my coat pockets. That’s how I used to walk everywhere. Hands always in the pockets of my jacket or hoodie.

            Doing that now, I feel slightly naked. Also, a little concerned.

            I can do this. I can do this.

            We walk in silence into the park. I wait to feel nervous, and I am, but not like I anticipated. It’s strange because it’s just Isak and I, in the dark, on a quiet night in one of our city’s most beautiful places. If it was me and anyone else, I’d probably be rushing to fill the silence.

            Because it’s him, I don’t feel like I have to.

            We used to go for walks sometimes. A lot of the time, I’d be holding his hand, but there were times like this that we’d just walk side by side.

            A million and one years ago.

            There are a few people littered about, but once it’s dark here there’s something uncanny about it. The lights are blocks that are subtly integrated into the design, so it’s not too bright. What seems so alive during the day becomes something different at night. Like the world is frozen.

            “Makes me think of Narnia.”

            I glance over at Isak, a bit amused. “How do you mean?”

            “Wasn’t that it?” he says, watching the dancing young woman in bronze holding up her locks as we walk by. “The Ice Queen or something froze all the people? And they came back to life when the Jesus lion died and resurrected?”

            “Yeah, that’s exactly how it happened.”

            “You know what, you can bite me. I haven’t seen that movie since I was like 10.”

            “Movie—it was a book first—“

            “I’m not reading the book. Aren’t there like a bunch of them anyways? I’m not reading a bunch of children’s books just to impress you. Snob.”

            “I am not a snob. I’m a pop culture omnivore.”

            “That’s like one of the snobbiest things you’ve ever said.”

            I think about it, then admit, “Probably.”

            Isak smiles, glad to have won.

            We stop at the statue of the man throwing babies around. It’s too weird not to stop. He’s tethered to the bridge by one foot, the other lifted to kick a baby. The other three are flying off his shoulders, like they jumped on him and he threw his arms open in an effort to detach them.

            Here’s the thing. It’s called _Man Chasing Four Geniuses._ I have no idea why. I’ll never look up the answer. Better to make up my own.

            We catch each other’s eyes, united by this strange place, and continue walking.

 

We’re almost to the end of the bridge when exactly what I was worried about happens.

            I slip.

            There’s a patch of ice under the snow or something, and I start to go sideways. My arms flail and my heart is going to fucking _explode_ —

            Isak grabs me under the elbow, eyes wide with concern. I get my footing, but I am scared. My heart flutters and I can feel my pulse pounding in my neck and my ears.

            Isak doesn’t let me go. He looks down, then says, “Where’s your cane?”

            I shake my head, feeling foolish. “In the car. I thought I’d try without it.”

            He lets me go, but I wish he wouldn’t. I’m being so stupid. I shouldn’t have left it behind, but I have, and now I just have to deal with it.

            Only I stand here, uncertain what to do. Like, I know I have to walk. I don’t have a transporter, and I can’t apparate.

            But the thought of going down on my leg, of hurting it again—

            “Do you want to go back?” Isak asks.

            I shake my head. Nonchalant. I can do that. I can fake that. “No, it’s fine.”

            He looks back the way we came. “I can—“

            I know he’s going to suggest running back for it, but if he does I think I might die from embarrassment. “Let’s keep going,” I say, and I start walking again.

            Each step, though, is giving me anxiety. I put my feet down deliberately, watching the ground. So stupid. I always have to make everything a production. Make people worry about me. I’m never just fine and simple and easy, always a problem instead—

            “Hey.” I look over. Isak has a hand in his coat pocket, but he’s sticking out his elbow in my direction. He clears his throat. “If you hurt yourself, I’m not carrying you back to the car. I mean, I could, but you’d probably make some argument about your dignity and you know I’m not good at arguing with you.”

            I look down at the arm he’s offering.

            After a moment, my face tingling, I wrap my hand around the crook of his elbow. We avoid looking at each other, starting to walk again carefully. He’s watching his steps so that I don’t have to.

            Trying to clear some of the tension, I say, “I’d never make any claims about my dignity. I’m not that much of a hypocrite.”

            “Yeah, I do have the receipts.”

            I smile, but the back of my neck feels tight.

            We walk together off the bridge, towards the fountain. When we pass a small group of people, I think of what we look like to them. _We’re not,_ I want to say to them. _We once were_. But it’s none of their business, and they’ll be gone from my mind about five seconds after they pass.

            I wonder when the last time we walked together like this was. I would have been 22, and he would have been 20. It would have been summer. I see us in my mind’s eye, two skinny young men in white t-shirts and jeans, careless and making one another laugh. It’s a world away from the two hesitant men in felt coats that we are now, trekking through the snow.

            When we get to the fountain, we stop a moment to look at it. The water’s not coming out of it, so we can see the men who hold up the bowl. I wonder how long they’ll last. Water is the great destroyer, after all. When the statues finally start to give way after centuries, the ones in the water will be the ones to go first.

            It’s a beautiful thought.

            I tug Isak’s arm lightly, and we continue on.

            We’ve rounded the fountain, not moving too quickly, when Isak asks in a steady voice, “The man who was in the car with you—was he your boyfriend?”

            It takes me a second to realize what he means. What car, because I’m never in a car, his is the only car I’ve really been in for months, either his or Mom’s, and the rest of the time I just take public transportation. But when the second passes and I realize what he means, I need another second to decide if I’m willing to talk about it.

            I am.

            “No,” I say, “he wasn’t.”

            “Your mom said he wasn’t, but—well, your mom lies.”

            I crack up a second, but then I sober. “No. He was my friend. My best friend. Well—that’s complicated.”

            “How was it complicated?”

            He’s been so cautious before about asking questions that might upset me. I’m not sure why he isn’t right now. Then again, I’m not sure why I asked to tag along on this stroll.

            I’ve never been one for caution, so I answer.

            “We met in a hospital. His name was Asvald. I don’t know that I’ve told you that. Asvald Solberg. When I talk to people about him, people who knew him, we almost never say his name, because we know who we’re talking about whenever someone just mentions _him_. I don’t know—like his name hurts too much to hear or like it’s bad luck or something. Which is ridiculous. I think about that sometimes. If I die, will people not say my name anymore? People don’t say your name, they don’t tell your story. They don’t tell your story, they forget you.” I catch myself, and snort. “I’m rambling. You don’t want to hear about this.”

            “Yeah I do,” Isak says, and he means it. I can tell from looking at him.

            I take a second as we slowly walk down the path between snow dusted hedges. “We met in the hospital. We hit it off. We weren’t anything alike, though. Basically the only thing we had in common was bipolar, and even that wasn’t the same. When he went up or down, he’d get violent. A lot of the time with himself, but sometimes with other people. People told me that, but I didn’t really believe them, I guess. I liked him. He was honest and weird and didn’t try to make me feel like everything would get better. And because that wasn’t really anything I’d ever done myself—get violent, I mean—it wasn’t something that I could imagine him doing, because I thought that bipolar was this thing we had in common, so it must be the same.

            “We stayed friends after we got out of the hospital. I liked that we were similar, that he knew what I was talking about when I talked about things. Sometimes—the rest of the world, it’s like speaking a second language. Like everybody’s speaking English. I can speak English, I can understand it and be understood, read and write in it, but it’s not the language I was born speaking. Then someone else comes along who speaks Norwegian, and you’re like, fuck, this is such a relief.

            “It wasn’t just that, though. Us both being crazy. He’d watch any weird movie I’d put on, and he’d read anything I wrote. We both slept weird hours, so we’d have someone else to talk to in the middle of the night. He was—really blunt. He could be mean. I was always telling him he should try to be kind, and he told me I was just asking to have someone rip out my heart. He’d worry about me. He thought I was too trusting. I’m used to people always worrying about me. It’s what they do, right? But everybody else was always worrying about me being sick, and what I’d do, and he was worried about what the world would do to me. It was nice. It felt…at least a little bit normal.”

            Stairs. I frown.

            Isak gently pulls me to a stop, like he can tell I’m not ready to take them on. “And he was your best friend.”

            “Yeah. We were different, but—we understood each other. He didn’t have many other friends. I worried about that, so I brought him into my group. They didn’t really care for him, to be honest. And he didn’t care for them. He and Mette hated each other. It didn’t bother me. I don’t need everybody to get along all the time. It’s not realistic. I just wanted everybody to give each other a chance. He kept coming around because I wanted him to, but no one ever took to him like I did.” I shrug. “I don’t know. They didn’t get it, but I tried to explain to them and they’d act like they understood.”

            Dad.

            It’s Isak and I standing with my hand on his arm, in the middle of the park on a cold night and I’m talking to him about a thing I only ever discuss with my therapist. But it’s a thing that I don’t talk about in the real world. I don’t want to go forward.

            Yeah, but it’s not like there’s any going back either. Not like I’d want to.

            “What is it?” Isak prompts.

            “Um…” I pull my hand off his elbow, sticking it in my pocket. I feel awkward enough telling this story, but doing it while I’m holding onto him would be too much. “We both ended up in a manic phase together. And it got pretty bad. He was paranoid, and…it was really easy to listen to him. I sort of detached from everyone else and ended up in this loop with him—he was my friend. He was the only one who really spoke my language. So…um, yeah.”

            I rub at the back of my neck, and Isak raises his shoulders. “I’ve pretty much heard it all at this point,” he reassures me. “There’s not much you could say that would surprise me when it comes to mania.”

            “It’s not that. Um…”

            “Even, you don’t have to tell me.”

            “I know.” I cough, and plow forward. “We kind of destroyed his apartment and got arrested. It wasn’t the end of the world or anything, but I hadn’t been in contact with my parents for awhile, and they tried to keep tabs on me through my cousin. He told them what happened, and, uh—Dad came out to Stockholm. And…I said some really bad things to him.”

            “Okay,” Isak says. He frowns a second, then shrugs. “Even, no matter what—I mean, everybody says bad things to their parents. That’s just one of those things that kids do and feel guilty about forever. If they’re not sociopaths or something.”

            “Yeah, but—um…I…like, I know I was sick, that I was still manic, and that it wasn’t entirely my fault, but I’m responsible for my illlness, and if I don’t take care of it, if I’m not careful, things happen—“ I let out a miserable exhale, and I just tell him. “I told him I didn’t love him. He said he was there because he loved me, and he wanted to make sure I was okay, and I told him that he didn’t love me, and that I didn’t love him. I laughed at him when he told me that he loved me. It seemed ridiculous, after everything. I was really calm when I said all of that. I was so calm that I don’t know if he believed me or not. I mean, I think he did, because he turned around and went home right after we talked. He’d said he was there to bring me back to Oslo and he wasn’t leaving without me, but I said things—all the things I’d thought or that I’d never dared let myself think, I said it to him. That he was a coward and that him pretending to come to my rescue was really disingenuous after all this time, and—I was cruel. That’s one thing I never, never am, but that’s the one time in my life—I was as cruel as I could possibly be, and I really hurt him, and he left. And then two weeks later he had a heart attack and died. So that’s the last time I saw him or talked to him.”

            I shrug.

            “Oh _fuck_ ,” Isak says, slumping.

            I nod. “Yeah.”

            “That—really, really sucks. I’m sorry.”

            “I’m sorry too.”

            He has no idea what to say, and I can’t say that I blame him. I can see him thinking all the things that Irene tells me—that I have to forgive myself or that I wasn’t in my right mind, etc.—but the idea of him saying it makes me want to puke.

            “Don’t tell me that I should forgive myself, okay? I know that’s—something I’ll need to get to eventually, but it’s going to be a long time, so let’s just not.”

            Isak pulls his lips into his mouth, then nods. “Okay. Fair enough.”

            I ruffle up my hair, then push it back into place. “How did we even get here—right. Asvald. Fuck. I really don’t want to talk about that now.”

            “We still don’t have to—“

            Stubborn, I say, “I went downhill fast after Dad died. Couldn’t go to the funeral, couldn’t…anything for awhile. But then I finally got it through my thick head that the rest of my life was going to be like this if I didn’t do anything. That I’d just be up and down and _sick_ , and I’m so tired of that being the first thing people think of when they think of me. I was so frustrated with being—that. Only that. Like nothing else matters.”

            “If people thought about you like that, then they were assholes.”

            “Maybe, but so was I. So I checked myself into a hospital for the first time instead of it being involuntary, and I went on the lithium, and I kept trying at therapy until I found someone who I actually felt like could help me, and I just—I did everything I could to get better. And that…really, really pissed Asvald off.” I start to shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about this—“

            Isak steps forward. “Then stop.” He lifts his shoulders. “It’s okay to stop.”

            Frustrated, I say, “I’m supposed to talk about this. Aren’t I? I’m supposed to be able to tell this story. If I keep it inside, what if it just…festers? What if it’s just this fucking open wound I carry around my whole life because I couldn’t talk about it? That’s what it feels like.”

            To my surprise, Isak smiles slightly. “Even—just because you didn’t feel like telling the whole thing this time doesn’t mean you’ll never talk about it again. It’s not like—you’re going anywhere. Or like I am. Or if you don’t tell me, you tell someone else. It’s fine. It’s chill. Stop talking about festering open wounds. It’s weird.”

            I burst out laughing. For a second, I think I’ll cry, but not because I’m sad. It’s because I’m relieved.

            Isak gestures with his head towards the stairs. “Ready to attack those?”

            I bite my lip, then nod with a smile. I take his arm.

 

The old man holds the old woman. They’re fragile, and beautiful. The snow has fallen into the crooks of them. They’ve always been one of my favourites. His head bald and his beard long, her body cradled in his arms. She gazes up at him with a heart full with love.

            I let go of Isak and move up to them. I start brushing the snow off of them. It makes my hands cold. But my hands are always cold. Poor circulation.

            When I step back, I look to Isak. He’s studying the statues. Something sad in his eyes. I’m not sure if I’ve done something wrong. “What?” I ask.

            He blinks, glancing over with a half open mouth. Then he closes his mouth and shrugs.

            I’m not taking no for an answer. I wait, eyebrows raised.

            Isak shifts, uncomfortable, then juts his chin towards the statues. “I used to think that would be us.”

            Well. Take a stake and shove _that_ right through my heart.

            My hands are freezing. I brush them off on the back of my jacket, chewing on the inside of my cheek.

            “I’m sorry about yelling,” I say.

            Isak screws up his face. “When?”

            Fidgeting, I say, “Last time we were out in a dark place alone together.”

            His eyes clear, and he looks away from me. “It’s okay,” he says after a moment.

            “No. You know I don’t—like to yell. If you’re not mad, that’s fine, but if you could say you forgive me instead of saying that it doesn’t matter—I’d appreciate that.”

            Isak rubs at the inside of his eye, then says, “If you consider forgiving me for the stupid things I said?” I pause, and Isak shrugs. “I said ‘consider.’ That’s all.”

            I nod. “I can do that.”

            “Well, I always forgive you for things about two seconds after you do them, so…”

            It’s cold and I’m in one of my favourite places, and…

            And, and, and.

            I clap my hands together, and say, “Should we try and have that conversation again?”

            He winces, dubious. “You sure you want to?”

            After a moment’s thought, I reply, “I’m never going to want to, but I think that we should.”

            Isak doesn’t agree right away. Given what happened last time, I’m not sure I blame him. He blows out a frosty breath, and says, “Okay.”

            He moves towards the steps. Bending down, he brushes some of the snow away. He glances at me, then steps aside further, and dusts away another spot. Sitting down, he looks back at me. I take a breath, then put a hand on his shoulder, steadying myself as I sit down on the steps. I smooth my coat underneath myself, scooting away enough that there’s a little distance between the two of us.

            Then it’s Isak and I, wondering where to go next.

            “I—I did leave you,” I start.

            Isak scoffs. “I fucking killed you.”

            “ _No_.”

            “Yes. Your heart stopped, you died—“

            “Isak. I did that. I took the pills. I made the decision.”

            “I made you.”

            “You didn’t make me do anything. I did it. I’m the one who tried to kill myself. I did it because I was sick and things got bad, and—yeah, I was angry—I’m always going to be angry—but I’m always going to be more angry at myself than you.”

            “You were just gone,” Isak says, sounding stunned even now. “After everything…I’d thought you’d been gone, I kept telling myself it wasn’t really you, but it was. I didn’t know what it was like for you to be really gone until you were, and there was just nothing—“ He rubs his palms against his knees. “I begged your parents to let me talk to you. I tried your cousin. All our friends, Sana’s brother and his friends, anybody I could think of. They all either knew nothing or they refused to let me get any kind of message to you and—fuck.”

            “What?”

            “I want to say something, but it’s in pretty poor taste.”

            “Well, now you’re obligated.”

            Isak swallows. “Losing you…that almost killed me.” He grimaces. “You were…the most important thing. You know that, right? You were—the thing I orbited around.”

            “No. You were the thing I orbited around.”

            “You still do that…thing, where you think you loved me more.” He looks over at me, pained. “I loved you as much as you loved me. Okay? I fucked up. Bad. But I loved you just as much as you loved me.”

            My fingers wrap around my scar. “That probably makes it worse.”

            “Yeah. Probably does.”

            I don’t want to know. I want to know. “The guy. That I saw you with.” Isak drops his head, closing his eyes. “Did you fuck him?”

            It takes a few seconds to get a reply. “No.”

            I study him, then say, “That’s one.”

            Isak glances up at the stairs. His face has changed since we were younger. I see a glimmer of the man he’ll be ten, twenty years from now. “I went into the bathroom with him, because I was drunk and stupid. He got his hands down my pants, but as soon as that happened—I sobered up real quick. Realized I was making a mistake. I puked, actually. With him right there. I was so grossed out by myself that I threw up. And I thought, if I just get home, if I apologize, if I’m better—if I try more, if I’m a better boyfriend…” Isak can’t speak for a moment. I can see the past reflected off his eyes. “Then I got home and the ambulance was leaving and—you were blue. I saw you for a second, and your mouth was blue. I did that. I did that to you.”

            Deep breath.

             I say, “We both did things wrong. I didn’t let anyone help me. I should have. If I had…but that’s not the way I am. And you…you did break my heart. You were—my everything. And you made me feel…like everything I’d worried about was true. I thought there was no point if there was no you. We weren’t good for each other. That’s what it comes down to.”

            “I don’t believe that.”

            “It’s the truth.”

            “We were happy,” Isak says, and I sigh. “We _were_. We were happy more than we weren’t. I’ve never been happy like that again.”

            “That’s because you were a teenager and it was the first time you were in love. That’s not—special. That’s just how it seems for everyone.”

            He narrows his eyes at me. “You don’t believe that.”

            “There’s a world of difference between the me on lithium and the me that’s not. Unmedicated me pretends in the possibility of unconditional love. This me—I don’t pretend. Love is always conditional. And it always has an expiry date.”

            “That’s not true.”

            “It is. You don’t want me to generalize about the world, fine. But I know myself. Whoever I was with, it would never work out. We had good years, but it was never going to last. Regardless. I don’t know if that makes you feel better or not, but it’s the truth. We were always going to break up. I think I told you that from the start.”

            “And from the start, I told you that you don’t know the future—“

            “It’s not the future now. It’s the past. And hindsight is 20/20. I’ve got enough experience now that I know what I can and can’t have. I was naïve, when we were together. I thought that if I could just try my hardest when I was in my good spots, it would make up for the bad. But it didn’t. And it shouldn’t. No one should have to put up with what you did.”

            “I don’t want you to apologize to me—“

            “It doesn’t mean there’s not a part of me that will always—hate you a little. I put my trust in you. Wholely. Unreservedly. I gave myself to you body and soul, and your patience lasted three months and that was all the space I got. I would have given you a lifetime. I know that. If I’d had that naivete to hang onto? Yeah. I’d have given you a lifetime.” I shrug. “But that’s not how it worked out. I don’t know what talking about all this will help. I mean, I understand that it’s the basic tenant of therapy, but still. I don’t know what good it will do either of us. Maybe give you some understanding into how I think so you can forgive me? Or so I can forgive you? If that’s even a thing that could happen.”

            Isak chews on his lip all through this. When I’ve stopped, he says, “Can I say some things?”

            “Yeah. I mean, you know I’m a cripple. Not like I can run off.”

            He tucks some of his hair under his hat, nervous. Isak says, “It _was_ special.”

            “Isak—“

            “You said I could talk.”

            I take a breath, lifting my hands.

            “It wasn’t just because—we were young and it was the first time. That’s not it. Okay, maybe a little, but that’s not all it was. It was special. Everybody said it, and I knew it. I knew it was worth fighting for, and so I did. And then I forgot to, and I don’t even know why. I just got so frustrated, and I didn’t know what to do. It hadn’t been like that before. I listened to what your parents said, I trusted that eventually it would pass, but when it wasn’t, I felt like—I felt like there were the only two options. Things would get better because they always had, or there was just being stuck like that. I always tried to…meet you where you were, and I didn’t that time. When it wasn’t like every other time—“ Isak presses his fingers into his eyes. “I just fell apart, Even. I fucking fell apart on you.”

            “No, that’s not how—“

            “Stop. You have to stop. Okay?” He drops his hands, looking over at me. “You were always like that. Always—acting like everything was always your fault. Sometimes things were your fault, sometimes they were both our fault, sometimes mine, but not always, always yours. I made you promises that I didn’t keep. I stopped taking things minute by minute and I got trapped in this mindset of forever, and I let you down. I fucked things up. I did that. _I_ did that. Not you. I wasn’t a good enough boyfriend. You always acted like you didn’t deserve me, but I never felt like I deserved you.”

            I scoff, uncomfortable, but Isak insists, “What we had was special because _you’re_ special. Okay? There’s nobody else like you. I’m never going to get that lucky again, which is a miserable thing to realize when you’re 24, but there it is. I’m ordinary, okay? I know that. I’m fine with that. You’re not ordinary. You never will be. You’re extraordinary. And I let you go, and I’ll never forgive myself.”

            Neither of us say anything for a moment. I clear my throat, feeling where the blush on my face meets the night air.

            “Well,” Isak says quietly.

            “I don’t really have a response for that,” I say. “Which might be a first.”

            “Look—maybe the smart thing is to not tell you any of this, so I don’t feel weird every time I see you, but I’ll feel like that no matter what. And I don’t like keeping things from you. What we had—that meant something to me. It was the most important thing for me. And when you—you act like it must have meant more to you, or that you felt things more than I did, or any of that—it pisses me off, okay? Just because it was four years ago doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter. It’ll always matter, and you’ll always matter to me.”

            I try to come up with something to say. Finally, I murmur, “I’m…sorry I wasn’t a better boyfriend.”

            Isak sighs. But then he says, “I’m sorry that I wasn’t a better boyfriend too.”

            “We were young.”

            “Yeah. But it still matters.”

            I weave my fingers together and open my palms. I look at where my fingers interlock at the base.

            “What do you want from me?” I ask.

            Isak starts a little. He begins speaking, then stops. I watch as he tries to figure it out. “I don’t know,” he says carefully. “I know it’s…bizarre, and it’s hard, but I don’t want to…if you’re here, I don’t want to _not_ see you.”

            “You’re right, it is bizarre and hard.”

            “Did you mind when I was texting you?”

            “No,” I admit. “But I just—I’m really trying to hold things together, and that’s going to get tougher in the next couple months, and I just don’t know where the boundaries are.”

            “What do you mean, the next couple months?”

            “Lithium,” I remind him.

            “Right,” Isak breathes, and I hear the anxiety there.

            To be clear, I state, “That’s happening regardless of what anyone else thinks. Life has been too weird this past year. If I can at least feel like myself again, it’s a risk I’m willing to take.” Isak doesn’t reply, but I can see him wanting to argue. “You’re not my boyfriend anymore. It’s not something you have a say in. You don’t have to worry about it.”

            “Of course I’m going to worry about it,” he mutters.

            “Yeah. I don’t suppose I can prevent that. But it’s my life. I want to live it without feeling like I’m only half here.”

            “That’s your choice.”

            “Yes.”

            “So…what are we to each other now?”

            I let out a laugh. “You’re my ex. I’m your ex. That’s what we are. What else could we ever be?”

            “What about friends?”

            I close my eyes a moment, exhaling. “We’ll never be friends. That’s just not possible. We never were friends.”

            “We were. At the start.”

            “No,” I reply. “We weren’t. No matter what you told yourself.”

            Isak pats his feet against the snow. “I don’t know about boundaries, but…I missed you. I missed you a lot, even when I was furious. I just…I don’t want to pretend like I’m not happy you’re here again. I don’t want to pretend like you don’t live a few kilometers from me.”

            “Not running into you has proven to be more difficult than I thought.” I look over at him and repeat, “What do you want from me?”

            Isak is speechless, then he shakes his head. “I—“ His shoulders hunch. “I want to see you sometimes. Not because we just ran into each other.”

            “Isak—we’re not ever going to be friends.”

            “You stayed friends with Sonja.”

            “Not if you listen to her.”

            “Look, if you don’t want me around—if the sight of my face makes you irritated, you can say that. I’ll fuck right off. But if—you wanted to see each other sometime—as friendly exes or whatever you want to call it, if you have to call it anything—I’d…um…”

            He looks so hopeful and prepared for rejection and I still don’t get it. I don’t understand myself either. I don’t want to pretend like he doesn’t exist either. There’s no good ending to just continuing to bounce off one another without definition. I don’t know how that ends well.

            And maybe if it had been a few months ago, and my brain was slightly more ordered, I’d have the sense to say this was a bad idea, that we should just leave each other alone. What’s past is past, and the damage we did to each other is too deep, and we need to just let go of one another, regardless of proximity.

            But my brain is a strange thing that I’ll never entirely understand.

            Voice steady, I say, “We can hang out sometime.”

            “Yeah?”

            I nod. “That would be okay with me.”

            “Okay. Cool.” Isak suddenly screws up his face. “So, did we actually resolve anything?”

            Laughing, I shrug. “Who even knows. At least we said things.”

            “Yeah.” He smiles, a sweet little thing that seems too warm for December. “We did.”

            Where am I going? Where are we going?

            I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see.


	45. Care/Concern

_It’s difficult to trust in love when you constantly straddle the line between care and concern._

_Then again, the two exist on a spectrum. And that spectrum exists on another one, with interest on one end and indifference on the other._

_It’s hard to focus. I’m still tired, but sometimes my mind races._

_Anyways. Concern does not exist without care. And I think that if someone truly cares, concern will follow, though in varying amounts._

_Care is a lot of things. It’s liking someone, it’s loving someone, it’s liking or loving_ something _. It’s that happy feeling when you think of them/it, that flutter inside, that sense of things being better because they/it exists. It’s wanting good things for them/it, it’s wanting it to flourish, it’s wanting the feeling to never end._

_Concern is natural. In moderation, it’s healthy. If you care about a thing, you want to know that it’s safe. You want to know that the thing will continue. Concern is a sign of affection. That’s a positive thing._

_It’s when concern metastasizes that it sours things._

_Maybe the object has merited it. Maybe it hasn’t, and the source is taking things out of proportion. But once that door has been opened, it’s difficult to close._

_Concern builds upon itself. It can overwhelm the object. It can overwhelm the source. It can turn care into resentment. It can reshape relationships, the path of a life, a sense of self._

_I don’t let people closer than necessary because I know how this story ends. Care turns to overwhelming concern. I’m not me, I’m a thing people have to worry about._

_It is better to be me than an object of concern._


	46. Chapter 46

I’m fucking exhausted.

            All I want is to crawl back into bed and throw the covers over my head. But I have an appointment with Irene in about a half hour, my last before she goes on vacation for Christmas, and I need to get through it.

            It’s not that I didn’t sleep. I slept for eight hours. Only I’m standing in front of the bathroom mirror and there’s dark circles under my eyes, and I have that gaunt, haunted look I get when things are going wrong. They’re not going wrong, I just feel so goddamned tired.

            I scratch at my eyebrow, reaching for my pills. I take one out and jam the lid back on with the butt of my palm.

            My leg aches. I’ve only been awake a few minutes and I feel like I’ve already taken on the day, and the day won. I feel old. Which is ridiculous. I’m 26. In two months, I’ll only be 27. I shouldn’t feel like this.

            I hold the pill up under the light. Round with a score down the middle. This little thing has kept me from going too far up or down the past year. It’s also kept me from feeling rested. It makes things hurt.

            I drop it in the sink and turn on the water, flushing it down the drain. It’s symbolic more than anything. I still have the bottle, the last bottle, and if I wanted I could just take a pill out of there.

            I won’t. Fuck lithium.

            I open the medicine cabinet so that I won’t have to look in the mirror, and go to have a shower.

 

“How did you sleep?”

            “All right,” I reply.

            I’m sitting at my kitchen table, dressed because I feel like I can fake things better if I’m wearing clothes. When Irene and I are done, I can put my pajamas back on and slither into my bed like an eel.

            This is not depression. This is just _tired_.

            She looks nice. New sweater, a necklace made of turquoise. Put together. I wonder what it’s like to be her. A professional who has things so together that her life is literally helping other people who are disasters.

            I try to picture myself in that position. Wearing a suit, sitting behind a desk and listening to other people tell me their sorrows. I snort.

            “What’s funny?”

            I wave a hand. “I pictured myself as an adult.”

            “You _are_ an adult.”

            “I meant in spirit as well as body.”

            “There’s plenty of ways to be an adult.”

            “You know what I mean. Settled. Normal. Responsible.” I shrug. “All things I will never be.”

            Irene narrows her eyes briefly. “You’re responsible for yourself.”

            “Yes, and I always do an _excellent_ job at that.”

            After a pause, Irene says, “Not having a great day?”

            “My day just started.”

            “That doesn’t mean much. Not everyone wakes up in the morning and feels fantastic about life. I’m not a morning person. My husband knows I need three cups of coffee before he’s allowed to speak to me. So. Not having a great day?”

            “It’s just a regular day.”

            “That’s still not an answer.”

            I sigh. I’m looking forward to having a break from therapy, truth be told.

            “You look frustrated.”

            “No.”

            “Is it with me? Do you not want to talk today?”

            “This isn’t about whether I want to talk or not. It’s about working on things. Work doesn’t just happen when you want it to. It needs to happen no matter what. And adults just—shut up and work. Or in my case, they talk.”

            “Have you been thinking a lot about adulthood?”

            “I don’t know. Mostly I’ve—been thinking about stories. But adulthood is boring, so we should probably talk about that.”

            I see her thinking. Thirty-seven minutes. I just need to get through thirty-seven minutes.

            “Do you think you’ll ever be an adult? On the terms that you think of adulthood as?”

            “God no.”

            “Why not?”

            “I’m crazy.”

            “Even—“

            I let out a deep breath, reaching down to rub my shin. It’s throbbing, ever so slightly, and I want it to stop.

            “What do you think you’ll be doing in ten years?”

            One of my least favourite questions of all time. It doesn’t have to be ten years. It could be five. It could be twenty. It could be some uncategorized nebulous thing. But when someone asks me about the future, I just want to crawl into myself and block out the world.

            “I don’t know.”

            “Well, think about it—“

            “I don’t know what I’ll be doing in ten years.”

            Irene is stubborn. “Well, think about it. Right here. What do you think, logically, your life looks like in ten years?”

            Well, it wasn’t about depression before. It will be now.

            “It will be a lot like this,” I answer.

            “How so?”

            “I mean it will look a lot like this.” I gesture around myself. “I will be living by myself, I will be on disability, I will continue to go up and down, I will be single, I will be just like I am now. This is what my life will look like.”

            A few seconds pass, and Irene says, “That hasn’t been your answer before.”

            “My answer before was probably disingenuous and artificially hopeful.” I’m going too far. I keep sounding like this, she’s going to want me to check in with her every day. “I’m sorry, you’re right, I didn’t sleep very well. And my leg hurts. I’m fine, just tired and sore.”

            “Do you think about this a lot? That things won’t change?”

            “You ignored what I just said and I do not appreciate it. When I speak, I do not do it to be ignored.”

            Irene presses her lips together, dropping her head briefly. She’s the one who taught me to say that. “That’s true. I apologize for skipping what you said.”

            “Apology accepted,” I say. I’m uncomfortable. I just said it because I was annoyed, not because I wanted Irene to feel bad.

            “I understand that it might just be a bad day. But sometimes when it’s a bad day, we don’t filter ourselves as much as on a good one. So—do you think about this a lot? That your life won’t be any different than now?”

            “No,” I say honestly. “I don’t think about my future.”

            “We’ve talked about this before.”

            “Can we not talk about this?”

            “If that’s what you really want. But Even, once you’ve tapered off the lithium for good, you won’t have that barrier between you and the world. You’ll need to confront things then too, even if it’s difficult.”

            “I don’t understand what you want from me right now. You asked what I think about the future, and I said that I don’t know, which is the truth, and you said think about it logically, so I did, and now—it’s like you’re just making me feel bad for I don’t know what. What exactly is it that I’m failing to do now?”

            “Even, there’s no need to be defensive—“

            “There’s _always_ a need to be defensive.”

            Irene pauses. Fuck, here we go.

            “I’m _tired_ ,” I insist. “It’s the lithium. I just need to get off it—“

            “That won’t solve everything—“

            “Yes,” I snap, “I know.”

            I feel like there’s bugs crawling up and down my spine. Like sitting here another second would be inviting them to devour me completely. Irene is speaking, but if I stay here I think that I’ll explode.

            “I think I’m going to go,” I say.

            Irene sits there with an open mouth, off guard. She glances to the side, presumably at the clock. “We just got started—“

            “I don’t think anything useful is going to come from today. I’m very tired.”

            “We can reschedule—“

            “No. I will see you in January, like we agreed. So.” I put on a smile. “Have a good Christmas.”

            Irene gives her head a shake. “Even, please don’t go just because this conversation isn’t happening the way you want it to.”

            “There’s no way that I want this conversation to go. I’m just really tired and my leg is hurting. I need to go back to bed. Again, have a happy Christmas, and I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

            “Would you check in with me tomorrow? Let me know that things are all right?”

            “I’m going to be pretty busy tomorrow, so I wouldn’t count on that.” I reach for the laptop. “Thank you for everything this year. Take care.”

            “Even—“

            “Take care,” I repeat, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

            Irene finally sighs. “Take care. Have a happy—“

            My finger trembles, just slightly, accidentally hitting the mouse. I log out, cutting her off mid sentence.

            Whoops. _That_ I did not mean to do. I’ll pay for that. There’ll likely be texts over the next few days asking me how I’m doing.

            Whatever. I’ll be better then. I just need to get some sleep.


	47. Chapter 47

I ask my mother, “What do you think I should do with my life?”

            She pauses with the latte at her lips, then pulls it away. “So we’re done with the small talk portion of this get together,” she says, gesturing between us.

            I squirm in my seat. I’m leaning against the window, trying to stretch my leg out. It’s been aching these last few days. Not like that’s new, but I had a good run there. With a sigh, I bend my knee.

            Mom tilts her head, trying to look under the table. “What’s going on there?”

            “It’s being difficult.”

            “Have you been doing anything different?”

            “No. I think it’s just a final ‘fuck you’ from the lithium.” Before she can get too worried, I say, “I’ll have a few aspirin when I get home. Or a nap. That’ll get me through.”

            She purses her lips, and I see her wanting to push. But she doesn’t. “The question was what you should do with your life?”

            “Yeah. Any suggestions?”

            “Well—plenty, but it’s your life.”

            “And I appreciate that, but—I want your thoughts.”

            Mom crosses her arms on the table. “You’ve never been one for thinking ahead.”

            “That must be scary for you.”

            “You’re almost 27. I’ve had awhile to adjust. Besides, I like your spontaneity. It keeps life from being boring. But! If you’re worried, we can talk about it. We can always talk about things. I mean, not everything, but practically.”

            “I’m, um…I lost my patience with Irene the other day.”

            “Uh oh. I could have sworn you liked her more than me.”

            I give Mom a patronizing look. “Please. No, she was…trying to push me on what I’d be doing in ten years, and I was honest. I don’t know. I don’t think about it. But I’m old enough that I should know.”

            “You don’t have to be. Your aunt, she was an accountant until she was forty because it was what my father thought she should do. Then she went back to school to be a pastry chef, and now she has her shop and she’s actually happy. And we get those beautiful cakes for Christmas. There’s no deadline.”

            “I—feel bad sometimes. Like I’m wasting everyone’s time.”

            “You’re not.”

            “You’re always too easy on me.”

            “I’m not.”

            “I just…feel like I was supposed to have all this potential. And it’s never going to go anywhere.”

            Mom takes a deep breath. I think she finally understands that this is a conversation that I want to be serious. That I won’t just flit away from it, like I usually do. “You’ve had a bumpy start. Okay? That’s undeniable. But—you’ve never stopped doing the things that you love. You’ve had successes. They just haven’t been huge. That’s how it works for most people, sweetheart. You thought you were destined for great things. And maybe you are. Or maybe you just get the little successes like the rest of us. Not having a huge success doesn’t make you a failure. It just makes you normal.”

            “Ugh,” I shudder.

            “Yeah, well, you asked. I didn’t want to say it, but you were insistent on hearing it.”

            “I thought I’d—I’d have one big project. Not always a dozen. And always small. I thought that eventually something big, coherent, would come along, and I’d be able to settle on that. At least for awhile. I guess that’s why I let myself go along with the movie for so long.”

            “Eh. It’s still in development. It could fall through.”

            “Don’t say that. They’re good people.”

            “It hurt you.”

            I lift my cane. “Got this out of the deal. So it can’t all be bad.”

            Mom taps her nails on the table, thinking. “So—is that what you want? One big success? People to know your name? Know you’re brilliant?”

            “I’m not conceited.”

            “No, you’re just sure of yourself when it comes to your talent. And you should be. I mean, I’m your mom, I’m obviously biased, but I love that you do so many things. I’ve always loved your stories and your songs and your movies. You never let reality sink your ambitions. At least until this last little while. That’s been hard to see, sweetheart. I don’t like seeing your light flicker.”

            “What if I never do anything? What if this is just me until I die?”

            “Just you is pretty fantastic, Even Bech Næsheim. I should know, I’ve been watching you long enough.” Mom bobbles her head from side to side. “But—if you’re worried—what are you working on right now?”

            “A few things.”

            “You said you were writing.”

            “Yeah. Nothing that the world hasn’t seen before, just retellings of old love stories.”

            “How many do you have?”

            “As of right now? Three.”

            “Which ones?”

            “Eurydice and Orpheus, Majnan and Layla, and Emperor Ai and Dong Xian.”

            “I know the first one but not the others.”

            “It’s me. Take a guess at how they all end.”

            “Bloody?”

            “But of course.”

            “That might be a good thing.”

            “Sorry?”

            “The literary world has never taken happiness seriously. It’s the doom and gloom ones that win awards, that make people feel smarter for having read them.” Mom chews on her lip, and says, “Go with that. Keep writing those stories, until you have eight, ten. Make a collection. We’ve got the money, we’ll find you a literary agent.”

            “Be serious.”

            “I am! Of course I am, I’ve told you before that we’d do this.”

            “Yeah but—” I look at her, hoping she’ll know why it won’t work. She doesn’t seem to get it. “I’ll just flake out on it. Like always.”

            Mom gets a look that worries me. It’s the look of someone who knows how to negotiate, how to get exactly what she wants. The look of someone who’d lie to her son and his ex to get them in the same house again.

            “Then we make a deal.”

            Wary as hell, I say, “What kind of deal?”

            “I’ll give you a deadline. Until the end of—June. Knowing how fast you write, it’ll probably be sooner than that, but I don’t want to rush you if you hit a bad patch.” She pulls a notepad and pen from her bag. It’s from her that I learned to always have pen and paper. Starting to write, Mom says, “I’m not saying they have to be perfect. That’s what an editor is for. But by the end of June, you give me enough stories for a collection, and I’ll pay for the agent. I’ll look after making sure it gets where it needs to go. And if I can’t manage to get someone to take it, then—I’ll pay your rent for a year.”

            “These stakes are getting very high.”

            “You’ve seen me play poker, Even. You know I play to win.”

            Concerned, I ask, “What happens if I _don’t_ get you enough stories?”

            Mom answers, “You go back on lithium. For at least twelve months.”

            My jaw drops. She just stares at me, daring me.

            “That…doesn’t work for me,” I say weakly.

            Mom shrugs, dropping the pen on the notebook. “I’m giving you options. You want a project, you want a reason to stick to it? Here it is. Something only your own, not that—someone else picked and chose which parts they liked. This would be your project. Supervised by the one person you know will always have your best interests at heart. And if you can’t complete it? Then we both know you’re not stable enough to be off your medication. I don’t have to worry for a year, and you can regroup. But if you finish, awesome. I’ll take it and run with it, sweetheart.” She picks the pen back up, hovering it over the page. “Did you think you inherited your propensity for dramatic gestures out of the blue?”

            “This is…I really don’t want to go back on lithium.”

            “Don’t tell me what you don’t want to do. Prove to me what you _do_ want to do.”

            “You’re a crazy person.”

            “High stakes,” Mom says. “High rewards. Don’t pretend. I know you won’t be able to help yourself.”

            I stare at her, and say, “You are a dangerous woman.”

            “I am.” She starts writing again. “Let’s get this all down. Then you’re going to sign it, and I’m going to have the damn thing framed. You want to know where you’re going? Well, let’s get you somewhere.”

            I watch her a moment. Then I say, “I love you.”

            “I love you too,” Mom replies without looking up. “Be a dear and go get me one of those biscuits I like, won’t you?”

            I do what she asks. As I wait at the till, I look back at her. She’s furiously writing down the parameters of the agreement. That’s what separates my mother from all the rest.

            She’s never misunderstood the line between care and concern.


	48. My Truth, Your Truth

_It’s the most slippery thing of all. It’s how we experience the past, and it is not fallible._

Rashomon _, okay? Plenty of people have seen take-offs of it, but by this point I don’t know how many people actually know where it started. So here’s the conceit of the film (Akira Kurosawa, 1950):_

_A man is dead and his wife has been raped. Everyone involved tells their story at a trial. The same events are replayed again and again, but from the perspective of the person testifying. The dead husband even testifies through a medium. Everyone has a different perspective, because truth and memory are subjective. In the end, there’s no knowing exactly who was right—the truth likely lies somewhere in the middle of all the stories._

_I think through my memories, and I see the world a very certain way, but I’m aware that the people around me obviously have very different perspectives. That’s terrifying. It is, if you really think about it. It means that truth doesn’t exist._

_Even if you film something, it can still be staged. People perform differently when eyes are on them. Home movies can tell you the story of a happy family, but it doesn’t tell you how when the camera stopped people started crying and the cigarettes came out and harsh words were exchanged. People will look at pictures of themselves on the screen and because it doesn’t fit their memory, they’ll refuse to believe it’s true._

_My memories are stories. But my memories are subjective. So does this mean none of my stories are true?_

_Probably._


	49. Chapter 49

I tug on the bottom of my sweater, then push my sleeves up over my elbows again. The sweater is one of my favourites, a gentle blue that makes my eyes look unreal.

            No idea what I’m doing, but at least we’ve established that’s probably the story of my life.

            The lights by the door and in the kitchen are on. I’ve left the ones over the bed off. The place is clean. Actual clean, not just things all in piles pushed off to the side.

            I can hear footsteps coming down the hall, and I get this nervous twist in my stomach. Hanging out. That’s a thing we agreed to do.

            The knock comes at the door and I freeze. I’m only a few steps away, but I suddenly can’t bring myself to move.

            Just open the door. Say hello. It’s fine.

            Nodding, I take the few steps, and I open the door. “Hello.”

            Isak smiles. “Hello.”

            I step back and let him in. Deep breaths.

            He stands on the mat as I close the door, looking around. Hopefully, I adequately disguise my nervousness. I don’t let many people come over to my place. It’s neat, and I’ve decorated the walls with some of my favourite posters, the others stored in the closet and waiting their turn on rotation. Things all in their place.

            He’s probably looking at it and thinking that it isn’t like me at all.

            He texted me this afternoon and asked if I wanted to get together once he was done work. I had no plans, and it’s been—nice, texting with him again. I’ve wanted to see him, truth be told. I said he could come over.

            “So,” I say, and Isak looks up at me. I’ll never stop enjoying being taller than him, and I’m not sure why. “Did you have something in mind, or—?”

            “Ah—not really,” he admits sheepishly.

            “Do you want to go out? Or—” I gesture to the flat. “We could get some take out, watch a movie.”

            “What movie?” Isak asks suspiciously.

            With an eye roll, I say, “A good one, because I’ll pick, not you.”

            “That’s how it’s going to be, huh?”

            “I know your taste, that’s definitely how it will be.”

            I move towards the new TV, and Isak says, “Um—” I pause, raising my brows. He gestures back over his shoulder. “Actually—I was thinking that maybe we could go to the market.”

            Surprised, I say, “Really?” I used to have to drag him kicking and screaming to the Christmas market. He’d be fine once we got there, and I know he actually enjoyed it, but it was a game we’d play.

            “Yeah. I haven’t gotten my mom anything for Christmas yet, and I don’t know what to get her. You were always better at that kind of thing than I was. I know you’ve already gone with your mom, but—”

            “No, yeah, let’s do that.” I go to the table, grabbing my keys. “You know you don’t have to ask me twice about the Christmas market.”

            “Hadn’t forgotten, no. But no elk burgers.”

            I stop halfway to the door, crestfallen. “Then what’s the point?!”

            Isak grins, and opens the door.

 

Isak buys us both elk burgers and we wander along the tents.

            It’s beautiful. White tents all lit up with fairy lights. Enough snow to be festive but not uncomfortable. People happy, kids running around and pointing things out, couples hand in hand. Lights reflecting off people’s faces. I don’t see a miserable one among them. I want to keep them all.

            The Christmas market has been one of my favourite things since I was little. When I was a kid, we’d go the day after it opened. Tradition. We’d each find a new ornament for the tree. We kept that up until Dad moved out, and I stopped going for a few years. But when Isak and I got together, I started going again. Only missed two in the last eight years, for the predictable reasons.

            It always feels so calm here, even when it’s busy. No, calm isn’t the right word. Content. That’s the word.

            “You’re so easy to please.”

            I glance down, swallowing my mouthful of burger. “Of course I am. Agh—” My burger is falling apart a little. I hold my cane out to Isak. “Take this.”

            He does, and I shove the rest of the burger in my mouth. He starts to laugh. Wiping my hands off, I take my cane back and try to work through all the elk in my mouth.

            “One of these days you’ll choke,” Isak admonishes, taking far more sensible bites.

            I make a grunt of argument, and something catches my eye. I nudge Isak’s arm, and he looks over. I point to one of the tents. He shrugs, oblivious. With a roll of the eyes, I cover my mouth with my hand.

            “Yes? Do you want to use your words?”

            Finally swallowing, I say, “I see some gloves your mom would like. Come on.”

            I lead him over to the tent. The gloves are woollen, purple and orange. They have a flap so that you can expose your fingers if you want to. I would not wear them—my hands would be too long, for one—but I’m pretty sure his mother would.

            Holding them up, I ask, “What do you think?”

            “Um—yeah.”

            “If you don’t think she’d like them—”

            “No, she would.” He steps up to the table, asking the seller, “How much?”

            A minute later, we’re leaving the table. Isak is pushing the gloves into his bag, still holding his burger off to the side and not making a mess of it like I would.

            Feeling bad, I say, “You didn’t have to get them just because I pointed them out.”

            “What? No! No, that’s not—I know she’ll like them. I just—I have a hard time seeing what she likes and—you haven’t seen her in like five years and it took you about five minutes to see something she’d love.”

            Leaning on my cane, I confide, “All crazy people like the same things.”

            “You’re a liar.”

            “Are you going to see her Christmas Day?”

            “Yeah,” he says, and I can see he’s not thrilled about it.

            “Does she still get bad around holidays?”

            “Only the Christian ones. So, you know, Constitution Day is usually a breeze.” After a moment, Isak says, “She’s been bombing my phone with Bible quotes again. I’m not sure what she’ll actually be like on Christmas.”

            “Sorry.”

            “It’s okay. You know how it is.”

            “I do.”

            “Dad and Cathrine invited her for dinner, but she said no. Last year was pretty good until she had a meltdown over the fact that there wasn’t a crucifix in the house. Cathrine’s really patient, you know. She let Mom know that she’d bought a crucifix, but Mom wasn’t having it.”

            “It’s nice that your stepmom’s trying so much.”

            “Yeah. I feel bad for her. Truth is, out of the three of them, I think I like her more than my parents. Don’t tell anyone.”

            “For shame.”

            “Yeah, I cry myself to sleep at night.” Isak gestures to a tent with his chin, and we move through the crowd. Notebooks with leather bound covers. He runs his fingers over one with a mountain pressed into the cover.

            It seems more like something I’d be interested in than him. I pick up a notebook, flipping through. The paper is thick. I wonder what it would be like to draw on.

            After a moment, Isak seems to be done looking, and he smiles at the woman behind the table before nudging me onwards.

            “So?” I ask. “What else is new since the last time I saw you?”

            “Not much. Just work. The holidays. Life’s pretty uneventful.”

            “Boring.”

            “Yeah. You?”

            “I made a devil’s bargain with my mother to write a short story collection. The stakes are high.”

            “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

            “If I don’t get it to her by the end of June, I have to go back on lithium for a year.”

            “Holy shit, you’re serious.”

            “I am,” I say grimly. “I’d better get her those stories.”

            “So have you been working on something? Or just your usual tragic love stories?”

            “Your criticism is not required.”

            “Not every love story is tragic—”

            “The only ones people remember are.”

            “That’s such bullshit.”

            “Name me a happy ever after couple that people would—”

            “Beatrice and Benedick,” Isak says without pause. At my wide eyes, he shrugs a bit smugly. “Take that, you fucking Shakespeare snob. Go ahead. Argue with me.”

            “Most people wouldn’t know—”

            “God, you hate being wrong—”

            “If I walked up to any person and said, ‘Which have you heard of, Romeo and Juliet or Beatrice and Benedick?’ who do you think they’d be more likely to say?”

            “That’s just because directors like to jerk off to sadness porn.”

            “Sadness porn?” I laugh.

            “Yeah. Oh, we’re so serious because everybody dies. Like happiness isn’t something that people should try and achieve. Like happiness is for the peasants.”

            “How do you mean?” I ask, intrigued.

            Isak pauses, surprised that I’m so interested. I don’t know why he should be, it’s a valid point. “It’s like serious stories that rich people are interested in, they’re always awful. People die at the end or they’re miserable. Then stories that are meant for poor people—paperbacks, big movies—they have happy endings. And don’t say that it’s just people trying to placate the poor stupid masses. It’s this—classist nonsense that lets rich people feel superior. Oh, look at us rolling around in our sadness, happiness is only for simpletons. Like, fuck off, I’d rather be happy, okay?”

            I laugh softly, then say, “I suppose so.”

            “Do you feel superior when you watch your very serious movies?”

            “No. I almost never feel superior to anyone. I like movies for how they make me feel. Things all exaggerated. It feels more like how I feel than real life a lot of the time. And the technical aspects. I love seeing how movies are made, what makes them different, what makes them great. I like big movies, you know I do, but I want them to make me feel something.”

            “I want movies to make me feel happy,” Isak says decisively. “I want the hero to win. I want the villain to lose. I want things to all turn out okay. I’m simple like that.”

            “You are _not_ simple.” I shrug. “You just have unrefined tastes.”

            “I’d push you if I didn’t think you’d break something.”

            “I’d hit you with my cane.”

            “Well, that’s just unnecessary.”

           

We wander for awhile. We talk here and there, but for a lot of the time, we’re just quiet.

            The night is cool but I don’t really feel it. A few flakes drift down from the overcast sky, but nothing serious. Late December, a few days before Christmas, and the world feels as it should.

            I mean at Christmas. I think those of us who celebrate Christmas, even those of us who aren’t religious—probably especially those who aren’t—spend a lot of our lives trying to get back to that feeling of when we were children. The joy of presents, the stories, the promise of happiness, the closeness of family, the beauty of the decorations. The atmosphere of the thing.

            Then you grow up, and you see how commercialized it can get and how harried adults really are around the holidays and the magic slowly but surely seeps away. However—the thing about magic is that it’s not easily forgotten. It grows in the mind until childhood perception and adult nostalgia create new memories. Remembered happiness becomes perfection. And of course, that’s impossible to reclaim.

            Every once in awhile, though, you’ll get a moment of grace. I think that I’ve experienced them more than most people. I have that thing that keeps me from seeing the absolute ugly truth about the world sometimes. The blinkers of insanity, I suppose. When I see something beautiful, it becomes the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. When I’m happy, it’s the happiest I’ve ever been.

            Or it was, until the drugs. And yes, there was the flip side to that coin. But I want to get that back. I want to see the world as a beautiful place. I want to feel like this when I step outside my door.

            So yes, there’s a few crying kids, and a woman trying to aggressively undersell this poor old woman selling tea cozies, but that’s not what I’m taking away from this. I’m seeing the glow of the lights and the smiles and the scents. I’m feeling how I felt when I was young and with people I loved who loved me. It feels how it should.

            Strange that it should be Isak at my side. After all these years—being angry, feeling guilty. Hating him. Missing him. Trying not to think of him. Thinking about him too much. Just another piece of the past that was a memory, nothing more.

            Now here he is. Grown up. With his grown-up job, and his grown-up clothes. His grown-up bag at his side, that I know has paper in it, because a person should always have paper to write on. The two of us, so different, removed from what we once were. And yet, here we are.

            I try not to look too closely, just glancing occasionally at him when I know he’s looking away. He was a beautiful boy, yes. Now he’s a beautiful man. He’s done well. I hope that he’s happy. That he finds what he’s looking for. We’re all looking for something, after all.

            Wisps of song find my ears through the tents, and I brighten. I tug on his sleeve, already moving away. “Carollers,” I say. We have to see them. It’s tradition.

            There’s a small crowd around them, a group of middle aged people with song books out. The song books are ornamental, because they’ve obviously practiced a lot, and they’re good. I think of choir when I was a kid. I only lasted a few months because I was too unruly, but I love music. I love to sing and play my guitar. Just not suited for group activities, is all. I appreciate people who are, who come together to raise their voices in song.

            And I love carols. I don’t have a religious bone in my body—unless I’m full manic, and then who knows what the hell I’ll believe—but the best carols are always religious ones, and I don’t mind. They’re so lovely. Best with no instruments either. Just voices telling the same stories they’ve told for centuries.

            They’re singing one of my absolute favourites—‘We Three Kings.’ I steady my cane and watch them. My heart feels full. That is a most welcome thing.

            I mouth along to the words, but I don’t sing along. That would be rude. They’ve practiced, and I naturally sing about an octave lower than they are. I can be quiet. I can just enjoy.

            They come to the end of the song, and there’s some scattered applause. I pin my cane to my side so I have a hand free to join in.

            They rustle with their books, but don’t turn the pages—knew it—then a short woman in the middle with many gorgeous laugh lines opens her mouth, and ‘O Holy Night’ comes out. I smile as she sings the first few bars herself, then the others seem to almost slip in with her.

            When they sing, “Fall on your knees,” the words spread out to the point where I feel chills. Perfect. That’s always the marker of whether this song is successful or not. What the singer does with those words.

            Christmas. As it should be. The world, content, calm, the air filled with song.

            Christmas last year wasn’t great. It was one of the few years I’d missed the market. Dad had just died and I wasn’t doing well. I didn’t know if I was going to make it. I had a few serious conversations with myself where I was pretty sure I wouldn’t.

            Nonetheless, here I am. Say one thing about me—flaky, strange, never knowing where I’m going—I can’t help but live. That is a good, good thing.

            I’m glad. Glad I made it another year. Glad I’m here—in this place, of all places. Back where I started. And with _Isak_ , of all people. That’s a strand of memory I never thought would continue weaving. I glance down at him, happy.

            He’s crying.

            It takes a moment of me staring at him before it sinks in what’s happening. He’s gazing at the carollers, blinking furiously. Green eyes all filled, threatening to burst their banks. He looks like someone’s stuck a knife through his heart and he’s only just realized it.

            I touch his arm, and he tries to wipe at his eyes, but it causes the tears to fall. He won’t look at me, only forward, trying to hold on. But his face is crumpling.

            I don’t want him to cry—why is he crying? What’s happened? Rubbing a hand across the back of his shoulders, I look at him in worry, wanting to decipher this turn of events.

            Fuck, Even, it doesn’t matter why. What matters is that he’s crying.

            So I wrap my arms around him. I hook my hand around the back of his neck, resting his head on my shoulder, and hold him close. “Shh,” I whisper. “Shh.”

            I’m not sure if that’s the right or wrong thing to do, because now he really starts to weep. Only he puts his arms around me and buries his face against my shoulder.

            Isak. My Isak.

            No. Not mine.

            Maybe in a way. In a way he’ll always be mine. And I’ll always be his. I don’t know.

            I don’t worry about that. Instead, I stroke his hair, and hold him while the carollers sing.


	50. Chapter 50

Once we’re both seated at the table, I say, “So?”

            Isak lets out a laugh, and for about the millionth time says, “Sorry—”

            “Stop that.” I’m seated sideways, so my back is to the wall and my legs can spread out. It’s not that late out. Probably not even 2100. I’m not going to take out my phone to check. That would be rude.

            We came back to my place. He wouldn’t say what made him cry, and I didn’t ask. If he wanted to tell me, he would have. He kept apologizing, but I won’t have it. Crying isn’t a bad thing. Sometimes people just need to do it.

            Honestly, I asked him to come up because I’m worried. Yeah, it’s fine that he needed to cry, but I don’t like the idea of seeing someone crying as hard as he was and then just letting them go off into the night. He tried to beg off, saying he should be getting home, but I could see that he didn’t want to argue too hard.

            So here he is in my kitchen. Just sitting in my flat, rubbing his hands together and only looking a little nervous.

            “What would you like to do?” I prop my head up, my elbow on the back of the chair. “You want to watch something, I’ll let you pick.”

            “Fuck, I must look pretty bad.”

            He doesn’t. Red eyed, a little raw, but vulnerable always looked strangely good on Isak. Kind of like everything else, the bastard. I cry, I look like a typhoid victim.

            “No, only a little pathetic.”

            “Bite me,” Isak laughs. He clears his throat, glancing down. Playing with his hands.

            “I could put on some music. It’s been awhile since there was anyone to make sure you were getting a proper music education.”

            “I do fine, _thank you_.”

            “Before you met me, you just listened to NWA on repeat.”

            “What’s wrong with that?”

            “Nothing. Other than it’s like the most bourgeois teenage white boy thing in existence.”

            “That’s funny, coming from like the most bourgeois teenage white boy I ever knew.”

            Dropping my jaw a moment, I give him a wink. “Fair.” My iPod is sitting on my bedside table. I think about what I could play for him. “There’s all sorts of musicians I can introduce you to now. And you’re my guest, so you’ll have to listen to them.”

            I start to push myself up, but Isak says, “Um—” I let myself back down. Cheeks pink, he coughs again. “Do you still play your guitar?”

            Raising my brows, I look over to where my guitars are mounted, the same acoustic and electric ones I’ve had since I started playing. “Yeah. Do—” I’m not certain if he means what I think he means. “Do you want me to play something?”

            Isak gives a nod, biting into his lower lip. “Yeah. Is that cool?”

            I _love_ playing my guitar. I haven’t played for anyone but myself in a long time, not by intent but circumstance. “Sure.”

            I push myself up and walk across the room. There’s only the smallest hitch in my step, and I’m kind of proud of myself for not outright limping. Doing that less and less.

            It’s not a question of which one. It’s night and one of us has cried and we’re alone in my flat. I pick up the acoustic six string and walk back to the table. I adjust the chair, then sit down. Resting the guitar on my lap, I stretch my left arm along the frets, fingers finding their rightful place. I strum my thumb across the strings.

            Out of tune. Just a touch.

            As I adjust the strings, Isak says, “Did you play much in Sweden?”

            “For friends mostly. If we were all hanging out, I’d just start playing. Background noise.”

            “Have you ever gotten up on a stage?”

            “Me? No. I think I get enough attention, thanks. I mean, I’ve been roped into karaoke a few times, but only after a lot of drinks.” Shaking my head, I say, “I’ve never liked the idea of being on display.”

            When I think it’s right, I automatically finger pick out the song I always use to test out the guitar, and of course it’s his song. I don’t realize it until I’m doing it. Muscle memory just took me there. After two bars I stop, hoping my face didn’t let anything slip.

            I take a moment then jump right into ‘My Sweet Lord’ by George Harrison. It’s catchy, but if you listen to the lyrics it’s literally about God. Or gods. The search for something greater than oneself. Something big and transcendent.

            I whistle out the part the electric guitar usually plays. I’ve got a good strong whistle.

            When I was ten, I got it in my head that I wanted to play guitar. Mom was kind of cautious—I already had a lot of hobbies that I was weirdly passionate about—but Dad was the one who went right out and bought me this guitar. He played the bass in a band in high school and university. They paid for me to have lessons, but I hated them. I’ve never been good with organized learning. I want to do things at my own pace, whether that be slow as snails or lightning fast. So the lessons stopped and I taught myself, from old books and YouTube tutorials.

            Sometimes Dad and I would play together. I have his hands.

            “I take requests,” I say.

            “Mm, I wouldn’t know what to request.”

            “Ice Cube didn’t do a lot of acoustic work, no.”

            “I kind of—I like Bon Iver.”

            Glancing over, startled, I say, “You do?” Isak nods, cheeks pink. I consider it, then switch to ‘Skinny Love,’ because everyone knows that one. “I can play the song, but I sure as hell can’t sing it.”

            “No, his voice isn’t like yours at all.”

            “Yours would probably be closer.” Isak makes a disdainful noise, and I smile to myself.

            Neither of us say anything for awhile, and I play the few Bon Iver songs that I know, then ‘Jag Lagde Me Så Sildig,’ which is one of the first songs I learned. Dad had a CD of Norwegian folk music when I was little that I would listen to as I fell asleep.

            “Sounds familiar,” Isak muses.

            “I’ve probably played it for you before. Either that or you’re remembering when Tupac sampled it.”

            “You’re a dick.”

            “You wound me.” I play ‘Svarterabben’ next to make him laugh, and he does, especially when I put an extra roll on each R. I’m glad to see him laugh. I certainly don’t like to see him cry.

            I think it was because of me. I’m not sure why, but I just have a feeling. Something about the setting, and me, made him fall apart. I don’t like knowing that there’s something wrong inside him to the point where he can break open, and that I put it there.

            When I finish the song, I say, “Enough of that. What next?”

            “What was that you first started playing?”

            “What do you mean?”

            He nods to the guitar. “When you were tuning it.”

            I pause, then pluck out a few bars in C minor. “That?”

            Isak nods, sitting back with his beer. “Yeah.”

            I see from his face that he knows exactly what it is. He’s always been such a terrible liar. Well, if he wants to hear it, he can hear it. I play his song from the start, on a loop, just like I listen to it on my iPod on the rare nights when it’s hard to sleep.

            Watching my fingers vibrate on the frets, I say, “This is your song.” I look at him from the corner of my eyes. He’s chewing on his bottom lip. I don’t have to think about what I’m doing; the backing track comes so naturally. “Well—technically it’s ‘The Boy Who Couldn’t Hold His Breath Under Water.’ But I suppose that’s you, to some extent.”

            “What do you mean, to some extent?”

            “Well—there was what I called you, and there was the movie I made for you when we were together, then there was the film I made a few years back. Which I’m guessing you’ve seen since you obviously know this song.”

            He clears his throat. After playing with his bottle a moment, Isak says, “You took down the video you made for me. Sometimes…” He frowns, and doesn’t finish the sentence. “Sana, she told me about the, uh, the cartoon.”

            “Cartoon. It wasn’t Garfield.”

            “You know what I mean,” Isak says in exasperation. “I saw that you won an award for it?”

            “I won two,” I say, not from pride, but just as a matter of fact. “Which is strange. And slightly discouraging.”

            “It’s discouraging that you won an award?”

            “No, that the most successful thing I ever did was when I was completely manic. Three months straight. That was not the work of a sane person. I’d draw until my hand cramped, until my wrist seized up. And when that happened, I’d edit on the computer with my other hand. It seems to be impossible for me to be properly creative when I’m stable. If I was another kind of person, I’d worry more about that. Accept that as my bad luck and move on. But I’m not that kind of person.”

            I stop playing to tune the guitar ever so slightly. Something sounds just a touch off.

            “It was really good.” I look over. Isak holds his beer against his chest and clarifies, “The—cartoon.” He smiles a bit.

            My heart does this weird skip, but I smirk. “Cartoon,” I mutter, changing to another song, the one I wrote for this girl whose name I can’t remember, but whose eyes were lilac.

           

I’m not sure how long I play for, the two of us not saying much, when Isak breaks the silence.

            “I’m having a New Years party.”

            I nod. “Yeah, you said.”

            “Do you want to come?”

            That stops me. I look at him. He looks back, stubborn.

            Uh…not sure how to respond. “This is—this is the party where all the familiar faces would be, right? All your friends.”

            Isak nods. “Yeah. Would you come?”

            “I’m—not sure that would be a great idea.”

            “Well, that’s too bad, because you have to come.”

            “Why do I have to do that?”

            “Well, one, because I said so.”

            “Oh really?” I laugh.

            “Yeah, and two, because people really want to see you.”

            “I _highly_ doubt that.”

            “They were your friends too. They’ve missed you.”

            Uncomfortable, I shrug, fidgeting my thumb over the strings. Me with a bunch of people from my teenage years, who only know what I was like a millennia ago. I’m trying hard enough to live now, and it’s already a struggle having this one person who knew me. Why would I put myself in a room of people who can pull out the receipts?

            “I’d really like it if you came.”

            And that shouldn’t mean a lot. He’s a ghost. He’s a memory. Or he should be.

            Nonetheless, it holds more weight than it really should.

            “Okay,” I say quietly.

            After a moment, Isak ducks his head, smiling a small, private smile. “Cool,” he murmurs.

            And I worry. I worry a lot. So I play my guitar, and I try to ignore what this feels like.


	51. The Goat Song

_Tragedy is always a step away from the absurd. There’s a very thin line separating drama and melodrama, after all, and it’s all in the eye of the beholder. And the whole point of tragedy is to give the audience catharsis. Think about it—watching people be put through hell in order to feel good at the end._

_We could talk about the origins of_ schadenfreude _, but maybe another day._

_So, tragedy and the absurd. Look at the etymology. The word ‘tragedy’ literally means ‘goat song’ (or ‘grape song,’ but I prefer the former for my purposes here). Really think about that. You think of tragedy and you probably think of that grimacing mask or Othello killing Desdemona or real-life tragedy like mudslides and kids dying and you use the word and what you’re actually saying is, “This is a real goat song.” Maybe there really isn’t such a thing as tragedy, just tragicomedy._

_Hypothetically, the word comes from how the prize for a performance competition was a goat. Or it might have been that the chorus of the original Greek tragedies were made up of satyrs. But there were definitely goats involved (or grapes, but again, we’re ignoring that)._

_I’ve always leaned in when it comes to the intersection of tragedy and the absurd. Every tragic love story is over the top and beyond belief and that’s what I love about them, because beyond belief seems truer to me than most things. The world is stranger than we give it credit for._

_And there’s never been a tragedy that wasn’t without its funny moments. Look at Pacino at the end of_ Godfather III _. It’s an underrated movie, and I’ll claim that until they stick me in the grave. At the end, when his daughter is killed, he loses his mind, and it’s an absolutely heartrending moment from before his ‘I don’t give a fuck, just pay me’ years. But when he’s wailing on the steps, he actually goes cross eyed from grief for a moment. It’s funny. It really is. And it might pull you away from the tragedy for a moment, but it’s always there._

 _Maybe that’s what makes tragedy so awful. For just a moment, you remember how funny life is. A set of crossed eyes, someone bursting into song over the corpses of the rest of the cast, a snot bubble bursting from your nose as you cry so hard you think you’ll die. It’s a reminder of the good. Then the bad crushes in and it crushes_ you _._

_Then again, what do I know? I only know it’s called goat song because of Wikipedia, and they tell the truth as often as I do._


	52. Chapter 52

When I see Magnus and Vilde down the street, I almost turn around and run in the other direction. My hands itch to throw my cane aside and break this body’s bonds and fucking flee.

            Then I remember that Isak texted me fifteen minutes ago to ask if I was coming, and I said I was almost there, and running for long distances is no longer a trick in my repertoire.

            So instead I just hang back at this corner, watching Magnus and Vilde. They look like they’re arguing about something. But not angry arguing. More like a disagreement. Or he’s talking her into something. Her face has that wounded kitten look that’s still familiar after all this time, and he cycles through expressions of teasing and stubbornness and sheer obliviousness. Classic Magnus.

            They’ve changed. His skin has cleared up a lot, but his cheeks are covered with scars. Hair shorter. Vilde looks older. She looks tired. Lord knows I’d be tired if I had three kids and another one inside me. She’s still pretty of course—Vilde will always be pretty—just different.

            Magnus has beers. Shit. Isak told me not to bring anything, so I didn’t. I should have brought a bottle of wine or something. I didn’t think ahead. I just brought myself, and that’s not a lot.

            He takes her hands, and she tries to tug them away with a frown, but he swings her hands gently from side to side. Whatever he’s saying to her, it seems to be working. She looks up from under her brows, a pleased smile spreading across her face.

            See, when Vilde does that, she’s beautiful.

            I hear people coming up behind me, and they’re not familiar, but I need to get going, because I probably look like a creep, this tall lone man standing on the corner, hugging the side of the buildings and staring at a couple. Actually, I suppose that does make me a creep.

            All right, let’s just do this.

            I walk down the sidewalk, hoping that they’ll finish their moment and go inside ahead of me so I can show up on my own. No such luck. Vilde’s laughing now, Magnus grinning, and they don’t look like they’ve any intention of stopping. They’re standing right in front of the entrance to the building, so I can’t exactly sneak around them either.

            I’m almost 27. I’ve lived at least a decade longer than people expected. I can handle a few hours of interacting with my own personal ghosts.

            Vilde’s the one to glance over as I approach, and there’s no reaction on her face at first. I smile, knowing that I must seem like an apparition to these people as well.

            Her eyes widen, and she says, “Even?” It’s a question bordering on exclamation. Fair enough. I’m not sure I exist sometimes.

            “Hi.”

            Magnus’ eyes go big too, and he says, “Holy shit.” I finish walking up to them, and if I’m white knuckling my cane, that will be my secret, because I’m wearing gloves. They’re both staring at me. No one does anything for a second, and I just smile, like I’m calm and this is all to be expected. “Isak said you were coming—but honestly, I didn’t believe him.”

            “Yeah, Isak’s always making things up,” I say with a straight face.

            Magnus unsticks, and suddenly comes at me with open arms. “Hi—”

            He’s just gotten his arms around me when Vilde yelps, “Magnus, be careful!”

            I’m patting his side with my right arm. Magnus jerks with surprise at Vilde, and says, “What?”

            Vilde looks between him and my cane. Her mouth wavers for a moment, and she says a bit helplessly, “He’s hurt.”

            Magnus quickly pulls back, and I say, “I’m fine.” I wiggle my cane, then nod down at my leg. “Just a little dodgy when I walk. This is more me worrying about the ice than actually needing it.”

            “Right,” Magnus says. “You were in a car crash, right?” I nod, lips pressed together. “Jesus. You never get a break, do you?”

            I laugh, giving my head a shake. “I must have done something in a previous life to destroy my karma.” I look at Vilde, not sure if she’ll want to hug me or not. Magnus was always the one who was like a friendly dog, free with affection and vacillating between unknowing and wisdom.

            Vilde hesitates, then steps forward, slightly lifting her arms. “It’s so nice to see you,” she says, and the sincerity in her small voice makes something inside me thrum.

            I bend down to give her a pat on the back. “The both of you as well.” I let her go after only a moment. She was always more fragile than most of us, and I don’t want to make her feel uncomfortable. As I stand back up, I raise my brows. “I hear I should congratulate you on your small army of children.”

            They both roll their eyes and sigh and look at each other. It makes me grin. “Yeah,” Magnus says ruefully. “They’re great.”

            “They are,” Vilde insists.

            “I mean, they _are_.” He looks up at me. “There’s just a lot of them.”

            “This is the last, though,” Vilde says, looking down at her stomach. She says it almost like a plea to the universe, like they’re not in control of these children who keep appearing.

            “I’m glad you have kids,” I say. “If more people like you had kids, I think the world would be a much better place.” They both smile at that, and glance at each other. I clear my throat, and nod towards the door. “Should we—?”

            Magnus looks back over his shoulder. “Yeah—you ready for that?”

            “Oh, they’re just people,” I lie.

 

I have this terrible premonition that Magnus will make some big pronouncement when we get to the door. We’ll get through the door of the apartment, and he’ll holler, “Hey everyone, look who I found.” And then I will shrivel and die from embarrassment. Or at last I’ll discover my mutant powers and turn invisible.

            When the door opens, I’m behind them, because it seemed rude to walk in front of a pregnant woman. And it’s Eskild who opens the door, like it hasn’t been seven years since he and Isak lived together.

            He’s flushed in the cheeks, already a bit drunk even though it’s only 2100. “Hello!” he says, and it’s actually kind of a relief. His awkwardness will cancel out Magnus’ enthusiasm. He waves to the inside of the flat with the hand holding a beer. “Come in, come in!” He leans down and says loudly to Vilde’s belly, “Hello, baby!”

            “Started early, huh?” Magnus asks, clapping him on the shoulder as he shucks his boots.

            Straightening, Eskild looks offended. “Why would you say that?”

            “Because you sound drunk.”

            Eskild sees me and smiles. “Even! Hello, hello, hello!” He brushes past Vilde with open arms, and she almost trips. Magnus immediately has an arm under her elbow as I accept Eskild’s hug. Thank God for this cane. It gives me an excuse to only give people one handed pats to the back. But I’ll have to give it up in a moment, because I don’t need it inside.

            Vilde’s giving Eskild an offended look, and Magnus just raises his brows at me in an expression that asks, _you got this? Can we go?_ I give a slight nod of the head, and he moves Vilde further into the flat.

            Eskild moves back a bit, giving me a grin. “It’s so nice to see you again!”

            “You too,” I reply, pushing off my boots. I take a look at the place.

            It’s nice. I mean, given what the last place Isak lived alone in looked like, it’s a miracle. The furniture and drapes are all dark greys and blues, entirely complimentary. They’re colours he would look great in. He has a bookshelf that’s filled and a big TV, and everything is clean and it looks like somewhere an adult lives. Which I suppose is true. He’s far more of an adult than I am.

            The place is also filled. I can see whenever someone recognizes me, their gaze freezing on me, but I don’t look back. I see it all from my peripheral vision, focusing on Eskild instead of this crowd who knows who I am and what I was and what I always will be.

            “Happy New Year,” I say.

            “Happy New Year!” he echoes. I slip out of my coat, looking for a place to put it. Eskild holds out a hand. “They’re all going onto Isak’s bed.”

            I feel weird about seeing Isak’s room. I see a hook that’s only holding a sweater so far, so I put my coat on that, leaning my cane beneath. “There. That works too.”

            He touches my chest with flirty fingers. “Don’t you look handsome.”

            I might have bought a new shirt for the occasion. It’s light grey and I’m wearing the cuff links I bought on a whim a few years ago with my rent money. I think I look okay. Christ, I hope I look okay; I spent long enough fussing in front of the mirror.

            “Thank you. You always look very nice.”

            “You’re a liar, but you are handsome, so that helps with you being a liar.” He turns, calling, “Isak!” He looks back at me. “Have you been to Isak’s before?” I shake my head, as he puts a hand to the back of my arm, guiding me into the flat.

            I can feel eyes on me. I remember what paranoia tastes like, but this isn’t that. This is just facts.

            “Where is he?” Eskild mutters. “Has anyone seen Isak?”

            “It’s okay,” I demur. “I can get a drink, wander—”

            “Even!”

            I brace myself for another reunion—oh, but this isn’t one I would mind. Yousef is coming right at me. I smile with relief. “Hi!”

            His hug is different than the other two. Magnus always comes at you by flinging his arms. Eskild tries to mold himself to your body. Yousef is hard planes and understands boundaries. We hug and let go at the same moment.

            He grins at me, and I remember why I had a minor crush on him when we were kids. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

            “Don’t listen to him,” a flat voice says from behind him. Yousef steps aside, and Sana looks up at me with a pursed smile and raised brow. “He’s been talking about it for days.”

            “Hi,” I say with delight, and I don’t know the etiquette. I have never hugged Sana before. When I hung out with her brother and his friends, it was very clear that it was not appropriate for me to hug the women in their lives. I don’t want to make her feel uncomfortable.

            Only she steps forward, holding out her arms. “Hi.”

            I lean down, looking over at Yousef and mouthing, ‘Is this okay?’

            He shrugs with an amused smile. “Don’t look at me. She’s her own woman.”

            I give Sana a gentle hug—she’s much firmer in her embrace—before letting go. She’s wearing all black. I can’t even describe how happy that makes me. Some things change, and some never will.

            “You look good,” Yousef says.

            “So do the both of you,” I reply. I gesture between them. “Did you ever—?’

            Yousef laughs, “You didn’t hear about that?” as Sana answers, “What am I? You think I’m going to live in sin with this fool?”

            They look at each other, and they both start to speak again, then stop. Yousef gestures her on. “You go. I know better.”

            She tsks, then shakes her head. “Three years ago,” she says. “He was a beautiful bride.”  

            He rolls his eyes, and I slap Yousef on the arm. “Well done.” I say to Sana, “You too. How did—that go?”

            They both inhale, sharing a look. “My mother couldn’t speak to me without almost crying for close to a year,” Sana replies.

            “They still look at me like I’ve stolen something,” Yousef adds.

            “You did. I blame you for all of this.”

            “Sure you do.”

            At the same moment, we all realize that Eskild is still standing there, looking unhappy at being left out. Before we can say something, like ‘sorry we forgot you were there’ he smiles brightly and says, “I’ll leave you all to catch up.” He moves past Yousef, calling, “Isak! Isak, where are you?”

            We all catch each other’s eyes, then Yousef nods towards me. “So? How are you doing?”

            “Good,” I say, and I think it’s mostly true. “It’s good to be back.”

            I can see the questions they both want to ask on their faces, but Yousef was never one to push, and Sana knows when it’s good to do so and when it’s not.

            In all sincerity, I say, “I’m so happy to see you both.”

            “We’re happy to see _you_ ,” Sana says, as Yousef puts a hand on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze and a shake.

            “Now that you’re settled in,” Yousef says, “you need to come visit us. I’ll make chicken tagine.”

            “You never learned to cook?” I ask Sana.

            She screws up her face, offended. “Why should I? That’s what I have him for.”

            I grin, and Isak comes to the door of the kitchen. He looks around just a bit anxiously, like he’s hoping to find something—but he settles when he sees me.

            Oh.

            I clear my throat, glancing down, and when I lift my head again, I find Yousef and Sana sharing a meaningful look. _No_ , I want to say, _it’s not like that. It can’t be like that._

Isak joins us with a nonchalant, “Hey.”

            “Hey,” I echo. There’s a moment of silence, which I can’t help but step on. “Didn’t think I’d show, did you?”

            Hands up, he protests, “I didn’t say anything.”

            “Still an awful liar, isn’t he.”

            “He’s got such an honest face,” Yousef says, pushing a hand over Isak’s hair with a rough playfulness that surprises me. Just the gesture alone tells me that they’ve become much better friends than when I left.

            “He’s got to have something,” Sana mutters.

            Isak lets out an exasperated sigh. “Are you _still_ bitter?”

            “I’m not _bitter_.”

            I whisper to Yousef, “What’s she bitter about?” and look away deliberately as Sana glares at me.

            “We had a breakthrough on one of our projects,” Isak says with some smugness, “and hers—”

            “My project is fine. My project is _brilliant_. My project is going to save lives,” Sana counters.

            “Do not go about in the land exultingly,” I say, “for you cannot cut through the earth nor reach the mountains in height.”

            Her jaw drops, and Yousef puts a hand to his face, laughing. “Oh man, I completely forgot.”

            “I’m sorry,” I say to Sana. “What is your brilliant project?”

            She crosses her arms, looking pissed, but I think I might have made her feel sheepish, which makes me feel bad. Also like a dick, because who am I to throw the Qur’an at a Muslim woman? “Our company is working on a new asthma medication. It’s going very well.”

            “It is,” Isak says.

            “It _is_ ,” Sana insists.

            “I just agreed with you!”

            “I can tell by the tone of your voice that you didn’t mean it.”

            “Oh my God,” Isak groans, “there’s never any winning with you.”

            He looks good. The truth is, I don’t think there’s been a time since I came back that he hasn’t looked good, but I just—I guess I notice more tonight.

            “You’ll never win against me,” Sana agrees. “Accept your fate.”

            Yousef gives me a look that brings back memories with the force of a wave. It says, _these two are ridiculous, and they’ll always be like this, but they’re ours, and that’s a good thing, isn’t it_.

            I step away. “I think I’ll go get a drink. I’ll chat at you later, yeah?”

            My sudden departure seems to have surprised them, but Yousef says, “Yeah, of course. Count on it, because you’re coming over for dinner.”

            I salute, and head towards what I assume is the kitchen.

            It’s not very big, but it too is well kept. There are bottles on the counter, and already a bag half filled with empties. I’m assuming most of the crowd out there have grown out of the binge drinking we’d partake in as teenagers, but this is New Years, after all. Realistically, it’s less of a time for second chances and more an occasion to get completely wasted.

            I just grab a bottle of pale ale from a company I don’t recognize, and search the counter for a bottle opener. I could just pop it on the counter, like I do at home, but it’s Isak’s place and I don’t want to damage anything.

            Isak’s place. Isak is an adult, in a place in his life where he can afford a place to live on his own, and he chooses to live on his own. Why does that make me feel sort of dizzy?

            Time to start drinking. But not too much. Only enough to wear at some of this edge, but not nearly enough to make choices I can’t take back.

            “On the side of the fridge.” Isak is leaning in the doorway, arms crossed high, a little smile on his face.

            I look over, and there it is. A bottle opener attached to the side of the fridge. “Ah.” I pop the top and have a drink.

            Scuffing the ground, Isak says, “I’m glad you came.”

            “Oh, don’t say that. I haven’t had the chance to really embarrass myself or anyone else yet.”

            “You know—you really are too hard on yourself.”

            I open my mouth, then wince. “I was about to say, ‘Better than someone else being hard on me’ but then I really listened to how that sounded in my head.”

            He laughs and pushes off the door frame. Snagging a bottle off the counter, he moves toward the fridge, and I step out of his way. He twists the top off the bottle, then turns to me. Lifting his bottle, Isak says, “Happy New Year.”

            Why do I feel like I should be blushing? I just push through, clinking my bottle to his. “Happy New Year.”

            We each have a sip of our drinks, not too far from each other. I think of other New Years Eves that we spent together. They’re all good memories. They don’t hurt to think about, but right now the thought of them makes me feel even more awkward.

            Got to get over this. So I say, wrapping an arm around myself, “How did _you_ end up throwing the New Years party?”

            “It’s because I’m so cool,” Isak replies without hesitation, and I snort. “What? What’s so funny about that?”

            “You’re—yes. You’re very cool.”

            “Why wouldn’t anyone think I’m cool?”

            “I—don’t know?” He raises challenging brows at me, and I shrug. “Maybe because you’re a researcher who owns a lot of sweaters.”

            “Science is cool,” Isak argues.

            “Science is very cool.”

            “And sweaters are amazing. Look at this sweater I have on. Tell me this isn’t cool.” He’s wearing a grey cardigan over a black shirt and jeans. Everything fits him perfectly. His hair is long enough to curl at the ends.

            I bite into my lower lip, failing to hold back my smile. “It’s very cool as well.”

            “So obviously I am the coolest person and the party would obviously be at my house.”

            I look at his face and after a moment I ask, “Did something happen to Eskild’s place?”

            “Yeah,” Isak replies, “a pipe burst and his place is flooded.”

            I burst out laughing, and Isak grins. He turns, resting against the counter beside me.

            When I’ve gotten my chuckles under control, I cough, and say, “Did you make the rice pudding?”

            “Oh yeah,” Isak answers. “From scratch.” He looks over at me, the side of his mouth lifting. “Is my honest face giving me away again?”

            “Yeah,” I say. “That’s what it is.”

            We lean against the counter together and have our drinks and don’t say much more. I am content and terrified.

 

I have the same conversation over and over, and it should be exhausting.

            Yes, I lived in Sweden for four years. Yes, it is nice to be back. The accident was a long time ago, and I’m fine. Not doing much of anything, just writing. My mother is well, my father passed away. Good to see you too.

            I do it over and over, and it should be irritating, but every single time, Isak steps in just when I’m starting to get frustrated, steering the conversation away from me and back onto whoever is asking the questions. He’ll nod for a minute or two, then say to me, “Anyways, I have to show Even this—” and he’ll lead me away to something in the flat, like the TV or his games or his books. Never anything really important, never anything that he’s really dying to show me. Just getting me away for a moment so I can breathe.

            It is so _kind_.

           

“Excuse me.”

            I look over, and I’m simultaneously relieved and confused. The man is older than most at the party, with grey hair just starting to dust through dark brown. He’s very, very handsome. Possibly Sami.

            “Hi,” I say.

            He smiles, and nods down to the little statue I was touching. It’s on the window sill, looking out at the street. It’s a skinny elk, and I’m not sure what it’s made of. Not the kind of thing I would have expected Isak to have, so I think that’s why I was drawn to it.

            “I couldn’t help but see you looking at that.”

            “Are you the artist?” I tease.

            “My uncle, actually.”

            “Really?”

            The man nods, moving his body so that I’m blocked off from the rest of the party. I recognize that immediately. It’s something I would do without even thinking about it. I cut back my smile.

            “It was a gift for Isak last Christmas. He was always admiring my collection.”

            “Where do you keep your collection?” I say innocently.

            He grins, and I grin back. We understand each other. I’m pretty sure I know who this is.

            “You work with Isak, right?”

            “Uh oh. Does my reputation precede me?”

            I give a noncommittal shrug. “Reputations don’t really interest me. They’re usually wrong, and only right when you least need them to be.”

            His mouth moves a little, almost like he’s running his tongue over the inside of his bottom lip. “And who are you?” he asks. I want to lean into the contours of his voice. I have no problem understanding why Isak would ignore things like ‘coworker’ and ‘supervisor’ when that voice speaks.

            “I’m Even. Who are you?”

            “Samuel. How do you know Isak?”

            But Isak is incidental here, I can tell. Samuel’s just asking to make conversation, to suss me out. It’s been awhile since someone tried to seduce me instead of the other way around.

            “Another in a long line of exes,” I reply.

            Samuel looks at me sideways. “Isak doesn’t have that many exes.”

            “Then I’m the crazy one.”

            His eyes clear. “Ah.”

            I laugh. “Ah.” I have another sip of my beer, reaching out to run a light finger over the back of the elk. It’s not wood. It’s something much more fragile. “Does your uncle sell these?”

            “He does.” After that moment of being off his guard, his voice has moved back into that lower register. He adjusts his position, still keeping me walled off from the other revellers. “He’s a painter by trade, really. He has a gallery. These he does mostly to pass the time.”

            “Mm. Good hobby to have. This is wire and paper maché, isn’t it.”

            Samuel lets out a surprised chuckle. “How can you tell?”

            “Because I used to make something similar.”

            “It’s wire and paper maché, with resin on top. Solid as hell as a result.” He smiles crookedly. “You have a good eye.”

            I look back at him. “So do you.”

            I don’t mean to do anything about this. I’m just flattered. As socially inept as I can be at times, I understand that getting into bed with Isak’s former whatever is a spectacularly bad idea. So I will just flirt and enjoy the attention and not worry about ghosts for a moment.

            “Hi,” a worried voice says, and we both turn our heads. Isak looks up at the two of us with barely concealed anxiety. I want to laugh, but that would be mean. As an adult, I’ve never cared if my exes spoke to each other. After all, they should probably form a support group. I get that other people feel differently.

            “Even was admiring the sculpture I got you,” Samuel says. “I was commending him on his good taste.”

            “He was flirting with me shamelessly,” I counter, and Samuel bares his teeth.

            “Right,” Isak says, and he now looks like he’s bordering on panic.

            I take pity on him. “But I was only humoring him. Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

            Samuel raises his drink. “Newly single.”

            “Thought you were staying here at the end of the night, didn’t you?” I tease.

            “Like you weren’t thinking the same thing.”

            I blush at that. “Ah, no.” I glance at Isak, who might be about to die. “Too long ago, too weird.” Now I need to escape. Yousef and Sana are on their own, talking about something. I’ll go bother them. “I see other people I need to harass. Lovely finally putting a face to a reputation.”

            “Likewise,” Samuel nearly purrs. I move past Isak, who has turned bright red. Can’t say that I blame him.

 

I’m on my third and final beer, sitting with Yousef and Sana, when the door opens and Jonas calls, “I’m here!”

            All the old crowd raises their drinks, drunk enough to roar their hellos, which makes him laugh. Mahdi climbs over the couch to greet him and almost falls off his feet. Isak goes to pick him up under the elbow, and they meet Jonas with hugs.

            Of Isak’s old group of friends, of the guys at least, I always thought Jonas was the smartest. He saw things as they were. He was the one most likely to do what was right. I respected him, but we were never close. He and I don’t really have the kind of personalities that mesh for close friendships.

            “Where’s he been?” Yousef asks.

            “Do you mean in general or why he’s so late?” Sana replies.

            “Both, I guess.”

            “I have no idea why he’s late. But he still lives down in Denmark.”

            “Right, he and Isak moved down there, didn’t they.”

            Magnus joins them, and I watch the old group together, cataloguing the changes. Everyone older, different in ways both subtle and obvious. But I’m happy to see them like that. I can’t imagine myself just getting together with my old group of friends and not feeling utterly on edge. It’s nice, that some people don’t have to always contend with their past. It’s just a thing that got them to where they are, a thing that doesn’t hurt.

            Jonas glances around the room, and when his eyes find me, they stop. I pause, watching his eyes go shrewd. Everyone here has seemed happy to see me, and that was a relief. Answering the same questions over and over was fine, really, because I expected deep down that there would be more of a ‘why are _you_ here’ attitude. I haven’t picked it up off anyone yet. Until now.

            Confidence shaken, I raise my bottle slightly, acknowledging him, then refocus on Yousef and Sana.

            Sana hasn’t missed anything. “Ignore him,” she says. “Who cares about the opinion of a man who’s more sideburns than flesh and blood?”

            I laugh, and I love her.

 

Around a quarter past 23:00, I see Isak separating himself from everyone and going to lean against the wall by himself. He wiggles his thumb under the tab on his beer can, taking a deep breath.

            I recognize this. Just like old times, in the middle of the crowd, sometimes he would become completely solitary. It’s not like he isn’t social—he is—but sometimes he would need to withdraw.

            I hesitate—maybe he just wants to be by himself. It used to be that I’d wrap an arm around him when he got like this, and he’d burrow against me until the urge to be alone had passed. But I’m not his boyfriend. I’m under no obligation to do anything.

            But I’ve had three beers, which is about as many as I have these days, so sense might not be a thing I’m currently in full control of. So I walk over, leaning against the wall beside him, and I give him a gentle nudge with my elbow.

            He looks up at me and smiles. He looks tired and a bit dazed, but the smile is genuine. He’s happy to see me. I still can’t believe he’s happy to see me.

            Over the music, which has gotten progressively louder over the course of the night, I say, “You’re the host. You’re not allowed to be alone.”

            He has to turn his head upwards and raise his voice for me to hear him. “I’m the host. I make the rules.”

            I shake my head. “Not how it works.”

            “Yes. How it works. Are you having a good time?”

            I think about it, then nod. “Yeah. It’s been better than I thought.”

            “See?”

            “See what? Why do you sound like you’re saying, ‘I told you so’? You didn’t tell me anything.”

            “I didn’t have to say it with words. I said it with my eyes.”

            “I think you’re a little drunk.”

            “I might be.”

            Just to make conversation, I say, “So—Samuel.”

            Isak groans and starts rubbing at the inner corner of his eye. “Yeah, I—yeah. I invited him yesterday. I found out that he wasn’t doing anything for New Years and so I just asked. I didn’t really think.”

            “Sure you didn’t.”

            “What’s that mean?”

            “That means I think you thought you were going to bed with him tonight.”

            “I did not!” Isak says, incensed.

            I nod, a smug smile on my face. “Uh huh.”

            “Absolutely not. That was not—no. That is over. That’s done. And between the two of us—” He stops speaking, pulling his lower lip into his mouth.

            “Between the two of us, what?” I turn so that it’s a little easier to speak to him. “I think you must have almost shit yourself when you saw us talking to each other.”

            Isak rolls his eyes, then admits, “It was close.” I chuckle, and Isak shakes his head. “It was like a bad dream. Like dreaming you’re back in school, only naked. I should have known you two would find each other. Just my luck.”

            “I can see why you were into him. He’s hot.”

            “Don’t. Just—” He shudders. “Don’t.”

            “Why not? He is.”

            “I can’t believe he was flirting with you. I mean, I can, of course he was—” He gestures to me, then stops.

            I raise my brow. Isak swallows, cheeks going pink. “What do you mean, of course?”

            “I mean—of course he was flirting. He flirts with everyone.”

            “Really?”

            “Yes, really.”

            “You didn’t mean, of course he was flirting with _me_?”

            “No,” Isak says adamantly. After a moment, he puts up both hands, hunching his shoulders. “Stop looking at me.”

            I snort, and cross my arms. I give it a second, then say, “Thank you for inviting me. I’m glad I came.”

            “I’m glad you came too.”

            I get a bit of an ache in my shin, sudden, unpleasant. Wincing, I flex my muscles, lifting my foot off the ground a moment.

            “How is that?”

            “It’s been fine,” I say. “I’m just not used to standing so long. I’m good.”

            “Go sit down—”

            “I said I’m fine.”

            “And I said, go sit down. Come on, there’s a spot on the couch—”

            “Keep pushing me and I’m going to go dance just to spite you.”

            “You want to spite me, you’ll just hurt yourself.”

            I arch a brow. “Now it’s a challenge.”

            “Even,” Isak groans.

            There’s not a lot of people dancing. About ten or so. They’re jumping around, and to be honest, the thought of doing that on my leg is kind of daunting. I’ll feel it tomorrow, that’s for damned sure. “Why shouldn’t I?” I say, as much to myself as him.

            “Because you’ll hurt yourself,” Isak repeats, the voice of reason.

            But now I’m committed. “Bye,” I say, pushing myself off the wall.

            I hear him say my name in exasperation, but I’m already walking away. I join the little crowd, and I dance.

            It’s an old Prodigy song. I don’t know who chose the music, but it sure as hell wasn’t Isak. I’ve looked through his iPod, and it’s hip hop and white guys with guitars. I like the mix that tonight’s DJ has chosen. Old songs, new songs, songs to move to.

            I dance. I dance like I haven’t danced in a long, long time. I dance like I haven’t survived months of physiotherapy, like I haven’t looked at a flight of wet stairs with terror. I dance like my body is just my body, a thing to express myself with, and not a journal of all my scars.

            I don’t dance with anyone else, just myself. Better that way. Dance with everyone or no one. I’ve had just enough alcohol to not worry about how I look. Not the confidence of when I was younger, no, but I doubt I’ll ever get that back.

            There’s a hand on my side, and I turn. Isak shrugs, and says over the music, “I need to keep an eye on you.”

            I twist to face him, looking down at this gorgeous ghost. “Weak.”

            He shrugs again, and starts to dance.

            So I dance with him.


	53. Chapter 53

The week before Isak’s twentieth birthday, we went to a club that doesn’t exist anymore. We didn’t go to gay bars much—I enjoyed them, but they still made him uncomfortable. “Everyone’s here to pick up,” he’d complain. “I don’t like the way they look at me.”

            I wrapped an arm around his neck and kissed his temple. “Can’t say I blame them.”

            “I don’t like the way they look at _you_ ,” Isak said with a viciousness I only ever saw when it was attached to jealousy. I just laughed at him and pulled him onto the dance floor.

            That’s why I wanted to go. I loved to dance. You could completely give yourself over to emotion on a dance floor, do what you felt, and no one looked at you strange. They didn’t care if you waved your arms, if you were covered in sweat, if you sang along to the words. It was a place where you could be sexual, where you could put your hands on another person, move with them. You could show the world what you felt.

            I wanted to be in that place with Isak.

            He was always slow to start on the dance floor, a bit shy, not like when we were alone in the flat and I’d crank up the music and we would be silly together. Out in public, I would have to get a few shots in him first before he could meet me for exhibition.

            When he started to kiss me in front of all those strangers, I was satisfied and joyful. I had my hands on his ass and my tongue in his mouth, his fingers clenching into my hair.

            “You’re so beautiful,” he groaned.

            “That’s my line,” I said in his ear, then rolling my hips against his.

            Isak shook his head. “You— _you_ are beautiful. Do you hear me?”

            I loved him so much in that moment. I rubbed my face against his. “I love you. I’ll love you until the end of time. And when the universe starts again, I’ll get to love you a second time. Or maybe this is the hundredth time I’ve loved you. Have you ever thought about that?”

            He smiled at me beneath the flashing lights. “I thought that was the kind of thing that scared you.”

            “Not when I’m with you,” I said. “My Isak. Mine. I’m never scared when I’m with you.”

            It was a lie, but he knew what I meant, and he wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed beneath my jaw, along my adam’s apple.

            “Why don’t we do this more?” he asked, and I laughed at him.

           

I dance with him now and it’s not that close thing it was when we were young, when we were together, but the thing that’s the same is that the rest of the world disappears.

            It’s me and him and no one else. There is no one else in this room. The only face is his, the only eyes are his, those green eyes that keep finding mine no matter what. That strange mouth of his and those feral, separated teeth, flashing at me as he smiles.

            Isak. Isak, Isak, Isak.


	54. Chapter 54

It’s only when it’s getting close to midnight that we realize there are other people in the room. People start yelling about the countdown, and I have to lift my head like I’m rising from a dream.

            I look back at Isak, who’s flushed and looks happy. We both laugh a little. I tug at my collar a few times. I’m a bit damp.

            He says something, but somebody’s shouting something, so I shake my head. Isak steps closer, nearly enough to touch me, tilting his head up. “Are you ready to give up yet?”

            Give up what? My heart stutters.

            My leg! That’s what he means. I give my head another shake, smiling. “Never. I could do this all night long.”

            Isak looks right at me, and he’s close. When he smiles like that, he looks seventeen again.

            “But!” I concede. “I need to get a drink.”

            “Yeah,” Isak says, taking a step back and puffing his cheeks. “It got warm in here.”

            “I’ll get you another beer?” I ask.

            He scratches at his hair, then says, “Water?”

            I nod. “Sure. Be right back.”

            Isak presses his lips together, stepping aside so I can walk to the kitchen.

            My leg doesn’t hurt at all. I think I might be floating.

 

I’m searching for glasses. Real glasses. There’s plastic cups on the counter, but I don’t like to use them if I don’t have to. It’s a lot of waste.

            I realize I’m smiling to myself. I’m having a good time. I thought this night would be a total disaster, and here it’s turned out to be really nice. It’s been a long time since I went to a party. It’s been a long time since I let myself be in a group of people to celebrate.

            End of what, admittedly, was not a great year, and the start of—well, maybe something good.

            I nod to myself, opening the cupboard that has the glasses in them. I snort. They have the Batman logo on the side.

            There’s movement in the doorway. I glance over. Jonas has come into the kitchen, his hands in his pockets. Just looking at his face, I can see he has something to say, but I’m on such a cloud of good feelings that only a tiny bit of me gets wary.

            “Hey, Jonas,” I say, reaching in for two glasses.

            “Hey.” He clears his throat, then says, “Look—this isn’t going to be very nice for either of us, so I’m just going to say it. Because I have to, not because I want to.”

            Now the alarm bells are going off. I lower my hands from the cupboard, turning to face him.

            Jonas swallows, then says, “I don’t even know if you can tell what you’re doing, but anybody else watching can see it, and it’s not going to happen. I don’t know if you and Isak have got yourselves fooled, because he keeps saying you’re just friends, but he’s still in love with you, and that means you need to get out of here and stay away from him. You’re a nice enough guy, Even, and I hope that you have a good life, but you need to stay the fuck away from Isak. It’s like he loses all common sense when he’s in a room with you. Or when it comes to you. But I watched last time when everything happened, and you’re not going to do that to my friend again. Do you understand?”

            The sides of my jaw feel hot. I stare at him.

            Jonas gazes back, then grimaces. “You almost destroyed my best friend. You don’t get to come back. You just don’t. Do you understand?”

            I understand.

            I drop my eyes. My mouth is quivering. Not sure how to stop that.

            Right. I need to go.

            I reach up and close the cupboards, because it’s automatic. Then I put my head down and walk past him. He doesn’t say anything else, and I say nothing at all.

            I don’t look at anyone. Everything is loud and people are distracted by the countdown to midnight. It’s starting, so no one notices me. I jam my feet into my boots, then grab my coat and cane.

            I slip out the door. No one tries to stop me.

            Why would they?

 

I’m such a fucking idiot.

            I’m so stupid, I’m so, so _stupid_. Why did I think I could go to that party? Everyone was just being polite. Jonas only said what everyone else was really thinking. All those people with their smiles and their questions, pretending like it was fine that I was there. It wasn’t.

            I’m not Even Bech Næsheim to them. I’m Isak’s ex, the insane one who broke his heart and tried to kill himself, that bad memory that hurt Isak for so long and so hard. He’s the one they love, and I’m the one who hurt him. I am not welcome.

            I am not welcome in that house, with those people. I am not welcome in this city. It’s his city. I should not have come back here.

            What am I doing? What am I doing?

            I’m walking down the street fast, clutching my cane, and my face is contorting, that I can feel. I’ve got my jaw set so hard that it’s stiff. Have to get away. Away away away.

            I’m not welcome here. I’m no one. _I’m_ the ghost. _I’m_ the madman who writes the words on walls. I’m not a person, I’m a diagnosis, a bad dream, a mistake that too many people have made.

            I need to get away. I need to leave. I don’t know where and I don’t know how, but this is not the place for me, and there’s a sick swoop inside because maybe there is no place for me anywhere. There’s no place for me. A hundred million different universes, and it’s still just me alone in my head.

            It’s too much. It is too much for me to bear.

            There’s the voice inside asking me how I could have expected anything else. I’m not the hero of the story, unless it’s a cautionary tale. That’s the role I play. I’m what people point at so they know what not to do. I am not a protagonist. I’m nothing. It’s Asvald’s voice telling me these things, but it’s really my voice, and I know that, I know it.

            Stories repeat themselves, but only about people who matter. I don’t matter. Not to anyone. Not to myself.

            I’m getting caught in a loop. I know it. Irene would tell me—

            Fuck Irene. It’s just false hopes and I’m not playing into them.

            A new year. I want to be sick.

            I ignore the voice calling my name for as long as I can. It’s like a knife, and every time my name is spoken it’s like the blade dives between my ribs. I don’t want to turn around. I don’t want this.

            I don’t want this, and no one wants me. That’s the truth. No more lies. He just said what everyone was thinking. I know he did.

            But the sound of my name is getting louder, and I can’t outrun it. Not like this. Stupid traitorous body, like the rest of me—the rest of me, stupid, stupid me—

            I stop and turn as Isak finally catches up to me. I don’t know how far away we are from his flat. Three blocks? Four? He’s trying to catch his breath, his jacket left open, his scarf in his hand.

            He stares up at me with wounded eyes, but I avoid his gaze. I don’t want to think about this. I don’t want to think about what Jonas said.

            “You just left.”

            “I had to go.”

            “What did he say to you?”

            I shake my head. “I don’t know what you’re—”

            Isak demands, “What did he say to you?”

            I don’t reply. Jonas is right. Isak doesn’t like to confront the truth. He probably doesn’t know what he’s doing right now or why he’s out here. He just did it because—

            Not thinking about it. Not, I’m not, I’m not—

            “Even—”

            He moves towards me, and I say, “Go back to the party.”

            “Fuck the party, I don’t care about the party—”

            “You’ve got no reason to be out here. Go back.”

            “I don’t care about what he said to you. He’s got no place saying things to you about—I wanted you there. I want you there. You don’t need to leave just because—”

            “I’m going—”

            Isak grabs me as I try to turn away. I cringe, and it takes all I have not to yank my arm from his grasp. “Don’t just take off,” he says, and there’s an edge of something desperate there. “Don’t just go.”

            “Let go of me,” I say patiently.

            “No.”

            I look at his eyes. “Why not?” I challenge. “Why is it so important that I be at some fucking party?”

            “I don’t care about the party,” Isak repeats.

            “What do you care about? Do you even know—”

            I only have time to pull in a sharp breath before Isak is kissing me. I want to fall back in surrender, but somehow I stay on my feet. He has a hand wrapped around my lapel and the hand with the scarf on it is over my shoulder, against my neck. His thin lips are pressing to mine.

            I kiss him back. It’s automatic, it’s as simple as breathing. If Isak kisses me, I kiss him back. That’s how it’s always been. His nose is cold against my skin, and his mouth is delicious, and I remember what it was like to kiss him. I think I’d made myself forget.

            I remember that our first kiss tasted like chlorine.

            I shove him away from me.

            “No!” I say, furious. Isak tries to speak, but I’m so angry that I shake my head hard enough to hurt. “I’m not doing this! Do you understand? I’m not fucking doing this again!”

            “Even—”

            “We did this and it didn’t work and I’m not doing it again! I’m not having my heart stop because—” I get a few steps back, needing distance, needing an entire continent between us. Gesturing angrily between us, I snap, “This is a tragedy, and my life—my life is _not_ a tragedy! I refuse to let that be my life. You and I did this already and it was a tragedy, and I’m not a cautionary tale, I’m not this, I’m never going to be this again. I am not a tragedy!”

            Isak stares at me with wide eyes. He says my name, but it doesn’t matter. I turn and stride away.

            Then I start to run. For the first time since the car plowed into that tree, I run as hard and fast as I can, until it hurts, which is fine, because nothing could hurt more than it already does.


	55. Lists

_West Side Story, Casablanca, In the Mood For Love, Breaking the Waves, Brokeback Mountain, Harold and Maude, Sid and Nancy, The Lovers on the Bridge, The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, Amour, The Crucified Lovers, Bonnie and Clyde, Doctor Zhivago, Lust Caution, a million different adaptations of Romeo and Juliet, A Single Man, Hero, Une Partie de Campagne, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, Wuthering Heights, Moulin Rouge!, Closer, The Red Shoes, Atonement, Gone With the Wind, Leaving Las Vegas, Badlands, Vertigo, Children of Paradise, Jules and Jim, The Story of Adèle H, Blue is the Warmest Colour, Love Me If You Dare, House of Flying Daggers, The Remains of the Day, Her, Blue Valentine, Never Let Me Go, Sophie’s Choice, I Am Yours, Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon, All That Matters is Past, Monsterthursday, I Am Dina, The Warrior’s Heart, A Handful of Time, The Passionate Demons, My Own Private Idaho, The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant_


	56. Chapter 56

I try not to think about it. I fail.

            I’m a fool. I should have seen what was happening. Isak’s face doesn’t hide much, and I could tell what he wanted. I told myself that I wasn’t seeing it, because I didn’t want to see it. I didn’t want to face the fact that I was headed for another catastrophe.

            It was too easy to pretend like nothing was wrong. Like he and I could just be friends. Falling back into old patterns because those patterns felt good, but ignoring that patterns don’t exist in a vacuum. They arise because of certain situations, and Isak and I felt easy together back in the day because we were _together_ , we were _in love_. He and I have never been friends. Not even in the beginning. I wanted him from the first moment I saw him staring at me at school.

            And yeah, I want him now, because I’m stupid and broken. My brain is a busted thing, malformed in the places that should keep me from making bad decisions. The question isn’t why I would want him. Isak is desirable. He’s beautiful and smart and funny and flawed in ways that have always fascinated me. Anyone with eyes and a heart that beats would want him.

            The problem is me. The problem is always me.

            He doesn’t understand what I am. He never has. I thought he did, but I was wrong. Just like everyone else, he sees the surface gloss. I thought he knew what was underneath, the ugly parts, the shameful parts, but when he saw them he was repelled. He couldn’t deal with it. And yes, I’ll always be angry with him for that, but it’s not like I can blame him. I can’t deal with it either a lot of the time, and it’s my broken body, my broken mind.

            He’s forgotten. They say that you can’t remember pain. I’ve always thought that was a fucking stupid saying. I remember all different kinds of pain, from an inability to lift my head in soul sickness to having bone pierce through my skin at high velocity. I remember it. I’ve had a mind for remembering things my whole life, and it’s a gift but I also get to remember the really bad shit too. I’m different from other people in that regard. I’m different from Isak, who’s forgotten.

            He’s forgotten what it was like to have a boyfriend who was crazy. He’s forgotten that person was _me_ , that that’s what I’ll always be. Crazy isn’t a thing I get to be cured of. Crazy is a thing that I hate and that I embrace, depending on the day, and sometimes both. Crazy is honest, and I despise it, but it’s also me, it’s one of the core things about me.

            What he sees is the surface me, and I know it can be appealing. I sure as hell hope it is, because it takes a lot of effort to create this façade. It keeps people from getting too deep, because they don’t like what they see and they leave. Better to be shallow and have them stay. Better than to be so lonely it hurts.

            That’s a double-edged sword; of course it is. Because then people think that’s the real me, and they want that, they want to be part of that. They want to go further.

            I let him in further and it didn’t work out. It was like any other love story that mattered. Someone died, and that someone was me.

            I don’t want to die again. Most people only do it once. I think twice is my limit.

            Isak is not my future. He is not my present. He was my past and you can’t go backwards. People think they can. They want to try again, to redo things. But things just repeat themselves. Life—it’s not about beginnings. Not really. It’s only about endings. People don’t understand that. They’re too scared to think about that. We all howl at the dark, but in the end, the dark is what’s real. We’re fleeting, ridiculous little things, and nothing we do will keep the end at bay.

            Things repeat themselves. That’s the way life is. And if you’re smart, if you’re careful, you see that, and you stop patterns from reasserting themselves. I’m not sure how smart I am, and I’ve never been one for careful, but I need to stop this now before I’m fully off my meds and I can’t help myself. I may not know where I’m going, but I know where I’ve been, and I’m not moving backwards.

            I want my life to be one of surprises. I want to not always know what each day will hold.

            I know exactly what a life with Isak holds. I’ve tried it before. We are not good for one another. I’m not good for anyone. The most I can do is take care of myself and hope for the best and learn to live with the knowledge that no one will know me all the way to the bone.

            Yes, that’s lonely. Yes, it’s terrifying. I’m a person who loves other people, and I feel like I have a lot of love to give. But that’s just not realistic. Real love doesn’t happen without truth, and people can’t know me truthfully.

            So this is what it is. This is my life. I will be alone.

            It hurts. I won’t lie. It fucking hurts.

 

When the phone rings, I get the awful feeling that it might be Isak. It won’t be. The only times my phone has gone off in the last few days is if my mother calls or one of my friends from outside the country wishing me a happy New Year.

            Taking a breath, I pick up the phone. Okay. This is manageable.

            Putting the phone to my ear, I purr, “Mette.”

            “I like when you sound happy to hear me.”

            “Why wouldn’t I sound happy to hear you?”

            “Well—”

            “Apologies have been made and accepted.”

            “Well—in that case—”

            “Yeah?” I say, suspicious.

            “Frode and Grete miss you. They were asking about you the other day, and I wondered if you wanted to come see some of the auditions.”

            Making a face, I perch on the counter. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

            “Even, there’s been rewrites. There’s been changes in the script, and I think you’d like them. It’s a lot less you and a lot more fiction. Just pulled from the air. Grete actually—” Mette sighs, dramatically enough that I take the phone away from my ear a moment. “She took it from me. Did an entire draft herself. Frode said it was missing something and—well. I’m not going to whine at you too much. I mean, I want to, but I don’t know that I’d get much sympathy from you.”

            “You would not.”

            “At this point, Even, it’s like—an echo of you. It always was, but now—anyways. If you don’t want to come see the auditions, maybe come out for drinks?”

            I wrap an arm around myself. My eyes find the cane resting by the door.

            “Not the auditions,” I say. “But drinks sound good.”

            “Okay,” Mette says, and she sounds surprised. Moving forward. Gotta keep moving forward, not back. “Friday? I’ll come get you around 19:00?”

            “I can get wherever we’re—”

            “Yeah, but I can also come pick you up.”

            “Okay. Sounds good.”

            “Even?”

            “Yeah?”

            “Are you all right?”

            Without a pause, I say, “I’m fine.”


	57. Chapter 57

‘The prince had never seen a more beautiful woman. She was voluptuous, silks wrapping her curves and rings adorning every finger. When she gazed upon you, it was like a bolt from the heavens or hearing the first chord of Hard Day’s Night. She was witty and lustful and her smile made more promises than any sane person would have ever expected to keep. But when she smiled, Salim could not help but believe those promises.

            ‘The courtesan had never seen a more beautiful man. He was young and doe eyed and earnest. He looked like the kind of man who writes poetry, and means each word, and believes in the power of the page. The way he gazed at her made her laugh—he appeared stunned, which she was used to, but his adoration was pure. That she was not used to. When she looked at him, Anarkali believed the prince would do anything for her.

            ‘She did not yet know that she would do the same. And this would be their downfall.’

            I wiggle the pen between my fingers.

            It’s not good.

            Tossing the pen down on the table, I plunge my hands into my hair and groan. Sure, Mom said that whatever I gave her didn’t have to be great, but I have my own standards. This is not even near them. This is prosaic and worst of all _boring_. I wouldn’t want to read this.

            I’m not going deep enough. What I want to do is take a knife and stick it straight into the heart of the story and wiggle it around for awhile until I have a decent sized hole. Then I want to fill that with acid and just keep stabbing. That’s the level I want to go to.

            So I’m avoiding that. For my own mental health.

            Aren’t artists supposed to plumb their pain for inspiration? I’ve done it before. Lord knows I have. But at the moment, doing that would feel like jumping up on the edge of a razor. I’m not so much worried about going over the other side as I am slicing myself down the middle.

            Instead, I’m stuck with this banal thing that people have heard a million times before. I want to give people versions of stories that they haven’t seen before. I know it’s not possible. Nothing new and under the sun and all that.

            I’m leaning into that. I’m embracing that people have heard these stories endlessly. It’s a conscious choice.

            Right?

            I let my head fall out of my hands and bang on the table.

            Mette will be here in a half hour or so to pick me up. I’m ready to go, I just thought I’d try and get some words out before leaving. Even if I don’t want to write, I try to get some words on a piece of paper so that the vein doesn’t dry out. Plenty of times, I hate myself for it. I hate the words I see, and so I hate myself. Because that’s me on the page. I don’t even know what I’m saying, and I don’t know the cause. Whether it’s because I’m tired or crazy or sick in my heart or something else entirely.

            Today wasn’t very productive. I just stayed on my sofa and watched movies. _Lilya 4-Ever, Kres. Grave of the Fireflies_ , because I didn’t feel bad enough already. At this point I’m ready to bolt from the apartment. Sometimes I’ll do this—watch movies I know will make me depressed just so that I’m all the more grateful for company when I get it.

            Drinks. With friends. Are they my friends?

            Do I have friends? Really?

            Oh, Jesus, Even, are we going to go down this road right now? Let’s not. Let’s just not.

            I should meet more people here. If I’m going to stay.

            Why should I stay? I shouldn’t. I should go back to Sweden. I have friends in Sweden.

            Or do I?

            If I want a fresh start, it should be in a place where I have no past. I can start over. No one will know me. Clean slate.

            Then there’s reality. The reality is that I need to be near people who care about me, so that I’m not alone when I get sick. And I’ll get sick. That’s inevitable. I’ve made it inevitable.

            What am I doing?

            The buzzer goes off, and I don’t know that I’ve ever been so relieved. I bolt up from the table and that was a terrible idea. I twist my leg a little doing it, and I get a sharp pain. For fuck’s sake, this day—this week!

            I limp over to the door, pressing the button. “Thank God you’re here. Come up, I need a second before we go.”

            I head back to the bathroom. I swallow down some Tylenol. Nothing stronger, because I don’t want my stomach pumped when I drink tonight. And I _will_ be drinking.

            Mette knocks on the door, and I almost holler for her to come in, but that would be stupid, because the door is locked. “Just a second,” I call. I wipe my hands on the towel, then the back of my pants as I cross the apartment. I reach for the lock with one hand and for my coat with the other. “Let’s get out of here. This week has been absolutely—”

            I open the door, and it’s not Mette. It’s Isak.

            Of course it is.

            I stand here, feeling that little sliver of anger starting to twist inside. He looks up at me and says, “Hey.”

            “What are you doing here?” I ask flatly.

            “I needed to—”

            “You shouldn’t be here.”

            He lets out a hiss of a sigh, then thrusts something out at me. “Take it.”

            It’s a piece of paper, folded into quarters. I do nothing, just look at it. “What is it?”

            Isak almost pushes it into my hand, and I have no choice but to take it or let it fall to the floor. Once it’s in my hands, he steps back, lips pulled into his mouth.

            I repeat, “What is it?”

            Isak nods at it, stubborn. “Look at it.”

            I don’t want to. But I understand that he’s not going to leave until I do. So I unfold it, and look at what’s written.

            It’s his handwriting, and the page is filled from top to bottom. It looks like he started out writing in lines, and when he reached the end of the page, he went back and started writing in the spaces. It’s names. The page is bursting with names in his handwriting.

            _Gertrude Stein & Alice B. Toklas. Odysseus & Penelope. Jane Eyre & Rochester. Marie & Pierre Curie. Johnny Cash & June Carter. Paul Newman & Joanna Woodward. Khnumhotop & Niankhknum. Taper Tom & The Princess. Krishna & Radha. Benjamin Britten & Peter Pears. _

The list goes on and on. I shrug. “What is this?”

            Isak’s eyes harden, and the set of his jaw should set me running, but I’m in my own home. He jabs a finger at the paper. “Those are people who were _happy_.”

            He certainly doesn’t look pleased about it. He’s working himself up, hands curling into fists.

            “The whole time I’ve known you, you’ve always gone on about how a love story isn’t a real story unless it’s tragic, and that’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. A love story is good if people love each other. It is the simplest, easiest thing, and you need to stop being such a child about it.”

            “Excuse me?”

            “Happiness isn’t perfect. People die. Everybody dies, Even, it’s just a thing that happens, but that doesn’t mean that we can’t be happy before we do. You always think that you know what’s going to happen—” I start to open my mouth, but Isak speaks over me. “You _do_ , you always have. You assume the worst will happen because the worst has happened to you so many times, but it doesn’t always.”

            “I’m not—”

            “There’s no way you can end that sentence that wouldn’t piss me off right now, Even. My life—my life hasn’t always been happy, so I know when I am, and I have never, ever been happier than I was with you. And we fucked that up. The both of us. Me more than you, I know that, I am sorry for that, but just because of one spectacular fuck up when we were kids doesn’t mean that it’s not worth trying again. I want to try again. I’m not going to be too scared to say what I want. There is no way that you’re here, where I can see you, where I can touch you, where you’re right in front of me, and I don’t say what I want. I’ve never stopped wanting a second chance with you, and if you don’t think I deserve it, that’s one thing. But if you’re going to say that you don’t want to try again because you know what the future looks like, that it’ll only end badly, then you can go fuck yourself. Because you’re wrong. It doesn’t have to be a tragedy. People can do better. Things can be better. If you don’t want me back? Fine. That _sucks_ but I’ll have to live with it. But if all you’ve got keeping the two of us from trying again at the best thing we ever had is being afraid of getting hurt, then you’re an idiot. We make the future. We’re not doomed to repeat things. We’re not.”

            I wait until he’s done, holding the paper in both hands. I look over the names.

            “That—is naïve,” I say.

            Isak lets out another one of those exasperated sighs, starting to turn away. He stops. “Say that you don’t want me back. Say that you don’t want to try again because you hate me. Or because you don’t feel about me the way I feel about you.”

            “Isak—it’s been a long time—”

            “That’s not what I asked.”

            “It’s been a long time,” I say again. “I’m not what you want.”

            Isak pushes his teeth against his lower lip. Then he shrugs, abruptly. “Think about it.” He steps away, and I want to tell him not to come back. I should tell him to lose my number. Instead, I watch him walk to the stairs. When he gets to the top, he looks back at me. “Those people on that list. Maybe they all didn’t get a happy ever after like one of your movies, but they all had something in common. They weren’t cowards.”

            He bounds down the stairs away from me.


	58. Chapter 58

I blink, raising my head. “Sorry?”

            The others are laughing. Not in a mean way, I don’t think, but it hits some tender part of me. Something in me is bruised, and I don’t want people to laugh.

            Frode glances at the others, amused. “Just checking to see if you’re still with us.”

            “Mm.” I settle back in my seat, smiling. Just keep smiling. That’s how I’ve always done it. “Still with you. Long week is all.”

            Grete says over her beer, “What have you been up to?”

            “Oh, not work things. Just life things.”

            “What kind?”

            “The kind that are boring.” I reach for my beer. The restaurant is not overly loud. We can hear each other well enough, and Jan Garbarek is playing overhead. Very adult. “Tell me about the movie some more.”

            “Auditions were—” Frode stops, nodding his head.

            “The kid,” Grete says.

            “Yeah,” says Mette.

            I look between them. “Kid?”

            Mette shrugs, and Frode says, “One kid came in and blew away his audition.”

            “Yeah?”

            “He really did,” Grete says, which means he was brilliant.

            “For Anders, or—?”

            “Yeah.”

            “He read and we talked and when he left—” Mette raised her shoulders. “I mean, it was pretty obvious.”

            “What did he have that the others didn’t?” I ask, curious.

            Mette thinks, then answers, “He’d thought about it. The character and the story. Not in an obnoxious way, you know, how kids get sometimes when they audition. We sent the scene out a few days ago with some notes, and the other guys—they were good, for the most part. We had one guy who’d thought about it way too much, but like, I can’t blame him. How many fucking films get made in this country with a brown kid as the lead? Then this kid comes in, he’s 19—he looks it too—but really self possessed. I didn’t really see it at first, until he started reading. He just— _became_ the character. Super charming, really present. And afterwards, he had questions about the scene. Why it had been written the way it was. He had notes. Which I thought was ballsy, but after what he gave us, I wasn’t going to argue.”

            “What did he have to say?”

            “Just wondering about where the character was coming from.”

            “He had a good point,” Grete pipes up. “About the phrasing of a line. That it didn’t sound natural.”

            “Fucking kid,” Frode says, but good naturedly.

            I’m curious. I can’t help but be. I like these people. I want their project to be successful, and if this adds to that, then all the better. I want to know that they do well, even if I’m not involved.

            Grete gives me a light kick under the table. “You want to see it?”

            “The audition?”

            “No, my stepson’s cabaret performance. Yes, the audition.”

            “Well, I want to see the cabaret performance as well.”

            Grete gets out her phone, and Frode and Mette chat at each other about locations as Grete messes about with her phone. I can’t help a thread of nervousness. This boy is going to be playing a version of me. A yellow curtain version of my life.

            “Here.” She passes me her phone.

            He’s handsome. For 19, that is. Slim, wearing a black jumper under a jean jacket. I wonder if they added that to the description they sent out or if it’s just coincidence. Hair cut close to his scalp, high cheek bones. He sits behind a table, pages in front of him.

            Shouldn’t. Today has been weird enough. But when do I ever stop myself from doing something I know I shouldn’t?

            I press play.

            I hear Grete’s voice. “Whenever you’re ready.”

            The young man pauses. Then he picks up his papers, standing. He rounds the table, dragging the chair with him, and sits on it backwards. He straddles it carelessly, assured of his own body in a way only a teenager could be. His face changes. Eyes brightening, a smile dances on his mouth. Like there’s a joke he knows that you don’t, or that he’s waiting to make.

            Fuck. It’s like looking at myself ten years back.

            “Anders,” Grete says in the flat intonations of someone who has never acted, “you need to take this seriously.”

            He grins nonchalantly. “Why would I do that?” And he _is_ Anders. He has crawled inside the character’s skin, it’s obvious.

            “You broke into someone’s house.”

            “I did.”

            “And?”

            “And what?”

            “And it’s wrong.”

            “Nobody was hurt—”

            “You can’t believe that. The people who lived there, they’ll be terrified when they found out someone broke in.”

            There’s a hint of indecision in his face. But it disappears almost immediately. The kid is good. “Nobody was hurt,” he insists. “Calm down. Don’t worry so much.”

            “Better than you. You don’t worry about anything.”

            He blinks, looking at Grete off screen. “Really? That’s what you think? That I don’t worry about anything?”

            “You don’t.”

            The boy smiles, crooked, bitter. “Yeah…” He exhales through his nose. “I worry about everything. I worry about things that matter.”

            “Like what?”

            “Like being in a hospital for the rest of my fucking life. How about that? I don’t worry about if someone opened my back door because I was too cheap to get decent locks. I worry about my parents. I worry about my idiot sister getting the shit beat out of her for wearing the niqab. I worry about being so goddamn crazy I never get a minute’s peace. I don’t worry myself about strangers.”

            “You’re being dramatic. You’re just trying to get a rise out of me.”

            “I’m not. I’m telling the truth.”

            “You’re not—”

            “Of course I am. You’ve just forgotten what the truth looks like—” He stops there, picking up the pages and frowning at them.

            Grete asks, “Are you good to keep going?”

            “Yeah, just—” He looks up, and he’s a totally different person than he was a moment ago. “Doesn’t it seem weird to have that there? I had a look at the rest of the script, and—it seems out of place.”

            There’s a surprised pause, then Frode asks, “How do you mean?”

            “Well—to me, Anders never seems like he’s boasting when he’s levelled out, right? That’s only happening when he’s on a high. That doesn’t come until later in the story. It seemed sort of weird to me, is all.” He ducks his head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—I’ll just keep reading—”

            “No,” Frode says. “What do you think he’d say here?”

            “Me?”

            “Yeah, you.”

            The kid widens his eyes, then chews his bottom lip. After a second, he settles back into that familiar posture, but his tone isn’t so confrontational.

            “Of course I am. I’m telling you the truth as I see it right now.”

            “What do you mean?” asks Grete, and if she’s uncomfortable with the improvisation, she doesn’t show it.

            “Truth is subjective. Everybody knows that. Or they’re trying to sell you something.” He grins, teasing. “But the truth is something different all the time.” He pauses, chagrined. “Like I should know better than to break into people’s houses. I didn’t mean to scare you. It just seemed like a good idea, and I feel like shit that you’re mad at me.”

            “I—just wish you would think about things before you did them.”

            Anders looks almost into the lens and says, “Yeah, but would I be me if I did that?” There’s something desperate there, and a little afraid.

            Who am I, if I’m not the person who takes risks? Who will I be, if I’m the person always saying no?

            My thumb has stopped the video before I can even think about it.

            When Grete asks what I think, I’m able to look up and say weakly that he’s quite good. I give her back her phone. I give no indication that I am suddenly very unsure of who I am.

            Or worse, who it is that I really want to be.

 

Grete goes outside to have a cigarette and I go with her to get some air on my face. It feels too stuffy inside. The problem isn’t with the restaurant, and I know it. The problem is with me. I feel confined.

            She lights up, offering me one, and I shake my head. I’ve been awhile without a cigarette. Having one now would just make me woozy.

            I try to find the stars, but there’s no point. It’s overcast, and lights are reflecting off the clouds.

            “So what’s gotten into you?”

            I look down at Grete. She is tapping her toe, cigarette down at her side. I can tell from her expression that there’s no use pretending.

            “Rattled, is all.”

            “The video or something else?”

            “Both.”

            “Want to talk about it?”

            Yes and no.

            I think about it, then ask, “Have you ever had a love of your life? Like—your partner, you look at her, and you know it’s special, that there’s never going to be anything better?”

            Grete shakes her head. “No. I love her. I want to spend the rest of my life with her. But I’m a grown up. I know there’s not really such a thing as ‘love of your life.’ Even if there was, you don’t know it until you’re dead and have all the facts, and then you won’t know it. Cause you’re dead.”

            “Exactly. I know that. But I had a love of my life.”

            “Did you?”

            “Yeah. We were together three years, then we broke up because of—because I was sick. If I wasn’t bipolar, we’d probably be married with kids by now. But we don’t, because we broke up, and it’s one of the worst things to ever happen to me. Only thing worse is my father dying. And it’s entirely possible that I’m only saying that because I’m supposed to. But this guy—Isak. He wants to try again.”

            Grete squints, lifting her cigarette to her mouth. “And you?”

            “I don’t fucking know,” I say helplessly.

            “Relationship ended for a reason, didn’t it? Relationships just don’t end because of one thing.”

            “No, it did. We were happy. We were so happy, and then I got really sick and he couldn’t handle it anymore, and I—we both overreacted. Like, both of us, on the same day. And a few days later I’d moved to Sweden.” I rub my hand over my forehead. “Refused to talk to him. Refused to act like I wasn’t responsible too.”

            “Gotta tell you, I’m not a fan of going back to things once they’re finished. It never ends well.”

            “I _know_. That’s exactly what I said to him. It didn’t end well for a reason, and even thinking about starting something again—it’s insane. It’s not logical.”

            She blows a plume of smoke off to the side. “I’m sensing a _but_ here.”

            I shrug, jiggling my cane. “But—I know he’s the love of my life.”

            Grete lets out a soft laugh. “Even, that’s such a kid thing to say.”

            “I know it is. I know. I’ve just—I do things in extremes, right? I’ve been so uncomfortable this past year on the lithium because it’s all just average, and that’s not who I am. Now I’ve got this thing dangling in front of my face that’s not safe or easy and it’s like a test.”

            “A test of what?”

            “Who I am.”

            Grete drops her head back on her shoulders. “God, I’m so glad I’ll never be young again. Even, you want my unsolicited advice, don’t do it. You’re a good guy.” She whacks my arm. “You’re a great guy. You had a bit more confidence in yourself that wasn’t from a chemical imbalance and you’d probably take over the world. You deserve more than to go back and try to fix your mistakes. But.”

            I gaze at her, then ask, “But what?”

            “But I’m looking at you and I already know what you’re going to do. And so do you.” She sucks nearly a centimeter off the cigarette, then leans down and stubs it out on the bottom of her boot. Putting the half cigarette back into the pack, Grete nods towards the restaurant. “Coming back in?”

            It takes a few seconds, but I shake my head.

            She nods, like I haven’t surprised her in the least. “Well, keep in touch.” She heads towards the door, saying over her shoulder, “You decide you’re ready for something new, I know a gorgeous genderqueer professor of Scandinavian lit who’d change your life.”

            Grete goes back inside, leaving me trembling on the sidewalk.

            What am I doing?

            I don’t know. It feels like my brain is in a fog, but not the kind I used to welcome. It feels like I’m a ship at sea, surrounded by mist in waters I know are filled with reefs.

            My fingers are clutched around the top of my cane. I turn slowly and start to walk away. My hand reaches into my pocket. I pull out my phone.

            When I get to the corner, I have to stop. My finger is hovering over the call button.

            I close my eyes and press the button. I lift the phone to my ear, squeezing my eyes tightly shut.

            It rings three times before picking up, and there’s a few more seconds before I hear a hesitant hello.

            “Can I come over?” I ask.


	59. Things I’ve Done Without Really Understanding Why

_Painted my nails pink for a month. Ignored my psychiatrist. Stood outside my father’s flat every night for a week and refused to go in when invited. Cheated on people I cared about._

_Got in the car._

_Gone back whenever someone hurt me. Memorized the Qur’an. Ignored the people who care about me. Enrolled in school. Thrown a year’s worth of writing over a bridge._

_Defended artists I know are indefensible as people. Listened to_ Illmatic _for days on end. Run until my lungs wouldn’t work. Tried to kill myself. Decided the best course of action would be to go off my medication. Broken into more places than I can count._

_Fucked people I didn’t really like. Fucked people I really did like and never called them again._

_Spent three months on an animation about an ex. Kept the same haircut since I was a child. Lied._

_Read horror stories even though they gave me nightmares. Watched movies when I knew they’d make me weep. Refused to let my jean jacket be washed._

_Ran away from home when I was 13. Been arrested 9 times. Gave my grandfather’s watch to a homeless man who asked if I had any change. Put dozens of nails in the floor of a flat._

_Fell in love at first sight, more than once. Fell in lust more times than I can count. Fell out of love with such a vengeance that my rage frightens me._

_Followed so many whims. Never could sit down and think through a proper decision without a paid professional hand holding me through it._

_Done LSD even though I knew it would fuck me up worse than most people. Got stoned pretty much constantly even though I knew it would aggravate my illness._

_Refused to tell people I was bipolar. Couldn’t even say the word until three months after my diagnosis. Walked out of the hospital into the snow in my bare feet. Seduced a nurse to avoid having to take my medications._

_Stole my mother’s credit card to buy 2000 kr worth of Criterion Collection films. Cut up my credit card. Fired or abandoned every job I ever had._

_Ran when I should have stayed. Stayed when I should have run. Told my father I hate him. Never told my mother nearly enough how much I love her._

_I got in the car._

_Why did I get in the car?_


	60. Chapter 60

I know I need to knock on the door. I’ve already rung, so he knows I’m in the building. I can’t just stand on the landing running a hand over my hair nervously. My hair always looks fine. It’s not the thing to be nervous about.

            What I need to be fucking terrified about is making this mistake. It is a mistake. I know it is.

            So why am I doing it?

            Because I want to. It’s not a good enough reason, but it’s the one I’ve got.

            I am not a person afraid to make mistakes. Mistakes, at the very least, make for good stories.

            I shake my head at what a ridiculous justification that is, and walk up to the door. My heart isn’t so much pounding as it’s just shivering inside my chest. I knock, then swallow this mouthful of spit I’ve accumulated.

            I don’t hear footsteps, but a moment later the door opens, telling me that Isak was waiting on the other side for me. The stubbornness has disappeared, replaced with a mixture of anxiety and hopefulness.

            “Hi,” he says, and I’ve always loved the way his mouth looks when he says that.

            “Hi,” I echo.

            Isak opens the door wider, but not letting it go. I take a few steps inside, cringing when he closes the door. Whatever it is that I’m doing, I’m here now. And apparently I’m doing it.

            I look behind myself, then rest my cane against the wall. That done, I turn to Isak, and I wish I knew what to say.

            “I don’t know why I’m here,” I confess.

            He bites his lower lip, then says quietly, “Yes you do.”

            Yes. I suppose I do. I nod, jittery.

            Oh, Jesus, Even—you’re here, just do it.

            I reach up, putting both of my hands to his face. He relaxes as soon as I do, and I feel a terrible jolt. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy it, just that it is more power than one person should have to bear. Isak gazes up at me, unblinking, with his beautiful green eyes, and I don’t feel like I’m going backwards. I feel very much in this moment, with the man he is now.

            I tip my head downwards and kiss his lips.

            I’ve never wanted another person more. That’s why I’m here. I can’t deny it. I never have, I’ve never even tried. He has always been everything I wanted. To think that I could be in the same city as him and not be dragged back into the cyclone is madness.

            His hands cup the bottom of my elbows, and I feel him having to make himself taller to meet my mouth. He’s already shorter than me, and now he’s in his sock feet while I’m in boots. Precious. Neither of us is being desperate about this. I think we’re both too frightened to be fast.

            I brush my thumbs over where his hair curls at the temples. There’s the gentle touch of his tongue at my mouth. We lean against one another, but barely in contact. My skin is cold but warming too quick around the edges.

            I feel too much. I pull him away from me, bending to look in his eyes. “This is a bad idea,” I say once more. “Do you understand?”

            Isak smiles slightly, then says, “No.” And I want to shake him, want to ask how he can’t know, but he seems so sure of himself, and I’m not sure of myself at all. So I have to believe in him. I have to believe in someone or something or I’ll fall apart. And he’s here, he’s in my hands. He’s real. After all this time, I have my hands on him, and he’s looking at me like I’m worth something. How am I supposed to convince him that I’m not? Isak looks down, then starts to unbutton my coat. “Off with this,” he says quietly.

            I let him undo my buttons, and after I’ve shrugged out of my coat, he takes it to hang up. I put a hand to the wall, steadying myself as I step out of my boots. I don’t want to make him have to stretch too much to reach me. Then I tug on the bottom of my shirt.

            Isak looks over, and smothers a smile. He comes over, taking my hand, linking our fingers together.

            “You don’t have to look so scared.”

            “Actually, I do.”

            He nods. “That’s fair. Do you want to come sit down? We can talk, or—” I make a sound, and Isak raises his brow. “No talking?”

            “I don’t want to talk.”

            He runs his other hand over my sleeve, fidgeting it between his fingers. “What do you want, then?”

            Someone to tell me what to do.

            Even, you’re here. What is it that you want right now?

            I slip a hand beneath his chin, rubbing my thumb over his thin lower lip. “I want…” What I want. What I want in this moment. Not later. Not four years ago. Not a day from now. What I want right now. “I just want you to touch me. Because you’re beautiful.” I shake my head. “Why do you have to be so fucking beautiful?”

            Isak’s cheeks burn a little, but I can tell he’s pleased. He tugs on my hand, pulling me over to the couch. When we get there, I’m not sure what happens next. This feels too tentative to just grab onto each other.

            Instead, Isak takes me by the side and turns me. He maneuvers and guides me down onto the couch, and he pushes me by the shoulder until I’m lying back. I laugh a little. This feels so awkward, but some of the fear is beginning to fade.

            I don’t quite understand when he kneels beside the couch. I thought he would be on here with me. Instead, Isak sits down on the ground at my side, drawing a knee up to his chest. He takes my hand, again, and lifts it to his face. He bends his head, resting his forehead in my palm, and nuzzles there.

            I let out a breath. This I recognize. This…this I have _missed_.

            I flex my fingertips against his skin, and Isak exhales, like he’s letting go of a weight.

            Was this inevitable?

            I think it might have been.

            He lifts his head, and reaches his hand across my stomach. He just touches me, no more and no less, which is a lie, because with him it will always be more when it looks like less to other people. He remembers. He remembers how I just liked to be touched. How I was always starved for fingers and sensation.

            After a few minutes, Isak moves himself so that he’s closer to my head. He pushes himself higher, leaning over me. An arm cradling my head, he kisses me. I’m starting to feel these electrical tingles all over. It’s never taken me much to get started, but those little caresses have always driven me crazy. I run my fingers over the light stubble along his jaw, parting my lips for him.

            Isak. How I got here…it’s a mystery. It’s not supposed to be like this. It is so hard to shake that feeling. Still, though—I am _here_.

            I thread my fingers into his hair, grip getting a bit stronger, and Isak nods. Neither of us rush. That would be wrong. We know it. It’s a relief that he knows it too.

            Isak kisses my cheek, bending to brush his nose against my face. “I’ve missed you,” he whispers.

            My heart aches, and I admit, “Me too.”

            “Say it.”

            “I’ve missed you.”

            “I’m so happy you’re here.” He pulls back just enough to look at me. “Are you happy you’re here?”

            I’m not sure. I’m turned on and I feel more than I’m used to. Does that mean yes? Some things feel so distant. Some things feel too close. “I don’t know what I feel half the time,” I say honestly. “I know that you feel good.” I watch his face. “Is that enough?”

            Isak thinks about it, then says, “For now.”

            Then he really kisses me, and I groan. I plunge my hand into his curls, keeping him close. I feel his hand bunching in my shirt, and the nip of his teeth. I feel how he’s still stronger than me, but how he moves so willingly under my hands. I could have him any way that I wanted, right here, right now.

            But that’s not what I want.

            Somehow he knows. I feel his hand moving down, and he whispers, “Okay?” and I nod without letting go.

            He unbuttons my pants, and yes, this might be a mistake, but I _choose_ to make it.


	61. Chapter 61

I’m not sure how long I’ve stood with my hands under water before I realize what I’m doing.

            I’m not sure what I’ve done. But I’m pretty sure it was the wrong thing. I don’t know that I’m capable of doing the right thing.

            I pull my hands back from the faucet and turn off the taps. I’ve cleaned myself off pretty thoroughly, and I just sort of spaced out while I was washing my hands one last time. Flicking the excess water from my hands, I dry them on a towel, then have a look at myself in the mirror.

            It’s one of those big ones that tell too many truths. My collar bones poke out and my eyes look tired. Pushing my hair back, I run my fingers down my breastbone. I should eat more.

            Stop stalling.

            I open the door, looking into the bedroom. After a second, I smile.

            “Where are my clothes?” I ask.

            Isak is sitting on the bed, sheets pooled around his waist. He’s trying his best to look innocent, which has never worked, ever. My shirt, my socks, my underwear, everything that he pulled off me on the way to the bed and tossed aside, have disappeared from the floor.

            “Clothes?” Isak says.

            “Yeah. Those things I had on before I got in here.”

            “Oh—those. I hid those so you wouldn’t run off.” He throws back the sheets, raising a brow.

            I let out a soft breath and pad over to the bed. There’s an ache in my leg, but there’s other aches too. They all sing together. “Paranoid,” I say, climbing into bed.

            “Realist,” Isak says, draping the sheets over me and scooting down.

            We lie on our sides, facing one another. It is familiar and not. He has tiny lines permanently etched into the sides of his mouth now, not just when he smiles or speaks. There are freckles that I don’t remember. But still, this is what we would do almost every night together.

            Pushing an arm under the pillow, I ask again, “Where are my clothes?”

            “Promise you won’t run off.”

            “Isak.”

            “They’re under the bed. Don’t run off.”

            “I don’t do much running. I’m crippled.”

            “You ran from me pretty fast on New Years.”

            “And I couldn’t walk the next day. If I was going to sneak out, I’d turn into smoke and slither away beneath the door.”

            “Stay,” Isak says softly.

            “I’m right here.”

            “You know what I mean.”

            “Look at me. I’m right here, right now.”

            “I want to talk to you. I mean—this was good. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve missed—I miss your prick and the way you look when you come and I’ll fucking slap you if you run off without coming inside me. I’ve missed _this_. But it’s not what I miss most. I want to talk. I want—I fucking want you, Even. I’ve always wanted you like I’ve never wanted anything else. So don’t go.”

            I exhale, then lay my hand on his cheek. “I’m right here. You wanted me here, and I’m here. Can’t we just…have a few minutes? I need to think.”

            “You can think and tell me what you’re thinking.”

            “Let me think.”

            Isak deflates, and I feel his pulse in his temple. But then he smiles at me. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

            “The list was a nice touch.”

            “I tried to figure out what you would do.”

            “It got my attention.”

            “All I ever need to do is throw the movies at you, don’t I.”

            “Mm, no. That face has its own magic too.”

            “But I mean it. People can be happy. Even if it’s not always happy, they can still—”

            “Isak,” I say, exasperated. “It’s late, and a really hot blond had my bad leg over his shoulder. Let’s not talk right now. Let me just look at you.” Isak worries his lip between his teeth, and I frown. “What?”

            After a moment, he admits, “I _really_ have to use the bathroom.”

            I pull my hand away, laughing. “Then go.”

            “If I do, you’ll leave.”

            “I won’t.”

            “I think you will. I think that if I don’t have my eyes or hands on you, you’ll run the first chance you get. I don’t want that. I want you—to want to stay.”

            I touch his mouth. “I do want to stay.”

            Isak’s eyes search my face. He’s still young. I have a hard time remembering sometimes, because of all we’ve been through. But he’s only 24, my Isak. There’s still so much for him to learn.

            “You mean it?”

            Nodding, I rub my thumb over the side of his mouth. “I mean it.”

            Isak hesitates, then I see him make the decision to trust me. He gives me a quick kiss. “Be right back,” he says, scrambling up and off the bed. I get to see his gorgeous naked body from behind, and I want to run my fingers through the shadows his muscles make.

            When he gets to the door, Isak looks at me. “Don’t go,” he says once more.

            I still don’t know why I got in the car. Even after all this time.

            “Where would I be happier?” I ask.

            He smiles, then closes the door after himself.

            As soon as the door clicks, I get my clothes and leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beautiful people! I just wanted to say thank you so much for all your comments over the past week. I'm not sure that I'll be able to reply to them all--life just sort of slammed me with 10.5 hr shifts and a bunch of snowstorms--but your words and encouragement have been so incredibly appreciated. You all get gold stars. 
> 
> As always, I'm at e-sebastian.tumblr.com if you ever want to experience a hodgepodge of multiple fandoms, historical fashion, and general weirdness.


	62. Accidents

_This is the story I do not tell._


	63. Chapter 63

There wasn’t anything out of the ordinary about that night. I was just sitting at home, leg slung over the back of the couch. The remote was dangling in my hand. I was five minutes into an episode of _The Twilight Zone_ —because you can’t make these things up—and trying to decide if I wanted to keep watching. I’d seen it before, and it was a good one. The guy who goes into a forest for a song and becomes the song. Only I didn’t know if I was in the mood for it.

            It was dark out. It was windy outside, and a Tuesday night, and I had no reason to be anywhere. I had nothing until Thursday. I had therapy with Irene, then I had a job interview.

            Reception, of all things. Me, who’s flaky as hell. But I’d been on the lithium for half a year, and it was the most stable I’d ever felt in my life. If there was any time for me to try a real job, this was it. Mom was excited. She didn’t say as much, but I could tell she was relieved that I was at least trying.

            When my phone rang, I almost didn’t answer. I just glanced at it, unable to see who was calling. After 23:00. I’m not a real stickler about people calling me at all hours; that would make me a hypocrite. But I could tell that anything this late on a Tuesday could get me in trouble.

            So I just looked at the phone for a moment.

            On the third ring, I picked it up to see who it was. That gave me pause.

            Asvald hadn’t spoken to me in months. He was pissed that I’d gone on medication, that I’d tried so hard to finally find a decent therapist. He felt like I’d betrayed him. I wasn’t angry about it. I understood. He was manic, and I’ve been paranoid when I was manic—Christ, I’d been paranoid alongside him—and sometimes you just don’t see things clearly. I figured he’d come around eventually. I’d called him a few times, and every time I did, he either ignored my calls or answered long enough to say I was a fucking traitor before hanging up.

            Now here he was, calling me. At 23:00 on a Tuesday night.

            I got a bad feeling. Something told me not to answer. That whatever was waiting for me on the line wasn’t anything good.

            Only I didn’t have much experience with trusting myself. After so long going with every whim, I’d learned that I couldn’t always believe what my brain was telling me. Here was my friend, who I wanted to talk to, calling me. Why shouldn’t I answer?

            So I did.

            “Hello?”

            I could hear that he wasn’t indoors. The wind was moving past the receiver. “Where are you? Are you home?”

            “Yeah, why? Do you want to come over?”

            “I’m coming to pick you up.”

            “What? Why?”

            “Because I want to see you. Can’t a guy come see his friend?”

            That bad feeling wasn’t going anywhere. I sat up, muting the TV. “Of course you can. I’ve got some beers, you can come up—”

            “No, we’re going out.”

            “It’s late—”

            “Don’t be a pussy. Come on. I’ll be outside in like five minutes.”

            “Asvald—”

            He’d already hung up.

            Okay. He was definitely on an upswing. He didn’t sound irrational, though, just hard headed. That was fine. I was stubborn, and I certainly knew what it was like to be manic. I figured he was hypomanic, probably.

            With a sigh, I got up. I put on my shoes, tying them up, then left to jog down to the first floor. I lived on the fifth, and the elevator was broken, had been for a week. I didn’t bother with my jacket or phone, because I thought I would just talk him into coming upstairs with me. I had beer and some chips. Asvald could usually be swayed by that.

            When I got outside, it was all of twenty seconds before his car came screeching up to the curb. I was startled by how abruptly he parked. He didn’t turn off the engine, just stayed there.

            _Don’t get in the car_ , a voice inside said. _He’ll want you to. But don’t_.

            The window was down, and Asvald called, “Why’re you standing there?”

            I tried to brush it off. Hands in my pockets, I bounded down the sidewalk and over to the car. I leaned to the side, smiling at him. “How you doing, friend?”

            He gestured me into the vehicle. “Come on.”

            “No, come into mine. It’s late, and I have alcohol—”

            “I don’t want to go in. I want to drive.”

            He was worse off then I had anticipated. He was staring at me without blinking. I didn’t like it. I crouched down by the door. “How long have you been—”

            “Don’t fucking ask me the same questions everyone else does. Don’t be a dick. Get in the car.”

            “Come on, Asvald, you know that I know how this works—”

            “Are you getting in the car or not?”

            “Where do you want to go?”

            “I just want to drive.”

            “You look kind of intense.”

            “What’s that mean?”

            “It means you look intense. If you want to go for a drive or hang out or whatever, I’d like that, but I’d feel—”

            “You’d feel what?”

            _Safer_. “Better, if you’d let me drive.”

            Asvald rolled his eyes, and reached to take the car out of park. “Fine, whatever.”

            I put my hand on the car. “No, hey—I want to hang out. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you. Just come in, have a beer—”

            “Are you coming or not?” Asvald snapped. He raised his shoulders, and even in the dark I could tell that he was jittering.

            I knew he was about to take off. Any second. If he did, I wasn’t sure what would happen to him. He shouldn’t be alone. I was his friend. I wasn’t going to leave him behind, like everyone else had. I would help him. Like people had helped me.

            “Yeah, I’m coming,” I said, and got in the car.

 

When he veered away from the curb, I knew I’d made a mistake.

            The vehicle lurched, and swung around all the way. I jammed my hand against the dashboard, my other one up against the roof. My heart leapt up and I thought, _oh shit_.

            Once the car levelled out, I grabbed for my seatbelt. Feeling the click as it hit home was the last moment of relief I had.

            I glanced over, bracing my hand against the door. I saw that Asvald wasn’t belted in. “You should put your seatbelt on.”

            “You should put your seatbelt on,” he echoed mockingly.

            “I’m not kidding—listen, slow down—”

            He just put his foot down on the gas more.

            I lived on the north side of the city, and he was taking us further north. It wasn’t overly busy on the roads, but it was fucking Stockholm, and there were still people out.

            “How’ve you been?”

            I looked over at him in disbelief. “Seriously?”

            “What have you been up to, who’ve you been with, where have you been?” At least he was looking at the road and not me.

            _Get out of the car._

            “Can you please slow down?” I asked, calmly as I was able.

            He went faster.

            “You’re scaring me.”

            Asvald started laughing. “I’m scaring you? Why would I be scaring you?”

            “Because you’re driving too fast and—” We blew through a stop light, and thank God there was no one else at the intersection. “Whoa! Holy shit, you need to—”

            “I need to what, huh? Mr. Superior? Mr. I’m Better Than Everyone Else?”

            “Dude—this isn’t safe. I need you to stop the car.”

            “Stop the car, you fucking coward. Just run away like everybody else. Just leave me behind. Of course. I told you, didn’t I? I told you you’d fucking do this to me.”

            We nearly clipped a van trying to edge out onto the road and I gasped. I’d never felt like this before. This was dangerous. I had done dangerous things in my life, but I had wanted them, or I hadn’t understood that I was in danger. For the first time, I understood exactly how much danger I was in.

            “You stopped talking to me,” I said.

            “You let me down!”

            “I was taking care of myself—”

            “Yeah, because there’s something wrong, right? There’s something wrong with us, there’s something wrong with me! Say it! Coward. Say there’s something wrong with me!”

            “There’s something wrong with you right now because you’re going to fucking kill someone—”

            Hissing, he shook his head viciously. “I knew you didn’t trust me—”

            “Asvald—Asvald, how am I supposed to trust you when—” He yanked the car around the corner, and I shut my eyes. “Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

            “What are you going on about? What’s wrong with you? We’re just driving, aren’t we? Two good _friends_ , just going for a nice drive.”

            “Stop the car,” I said, opening my eyes. I was staring at the dashboard instead of the road. I couldn’t stand to look out the window and see what might be coming at us. The world was going by faster than my heart was pounding and that didn’t seem possible.

            “You got in, you stay in—”

            “You want to be pissed at me, fine, you want to hurt me, fine, but you’re going to hurt someone else—”

            “You think I want to hurt you?” Asvald nearly yelled. He sounded on the verge of hysteria. We both did. “That’s what you think of me? That I want to hurt you? Your best friend?”

            “My best friend wouldn’t try to scare the shit out of me! Pull over!”

            The car was speeding down the E4, towards Hagaparken. I was getting more scared by the second. If people were in the park—if they were walking and not thinking, if they’d been drinking in the park and came out near the road—

            “Please,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “Please slow down.”

            “Why?”

            “Because you’re driving too fast!”

            “What’s too fast, huh? We’ve driven this fast before!”

            “Not like this!”

            “Why is this so different? Why is everything so goddamn different now?!”

I roared, “Because you’re acting like a fucking crazy person!”

            “Crazy?” Asvald yelled. “I’m crazy?!”

            I snapped. This wasn’t fun, it wasn’t mania, it wasn’t sustainable, it was something I rejected, utterly and entirely. We were going to get killed, and I did not want to die. I _did not want to die._

            “Pull over—”

            “I’ll show you crazy, you sanctimonious fucking—”

            He pulled the wheel to the right all the way, and we veered off the road and onto the grass. I shouted, bracing myself against the inside of the car as we sped towards the trees, only able to make out shapes in the moment, in the dim light.

            Asvald was screaming but I don’t know what he said. I don’t know what his last words were to me because I was so terrified that I couldn’t even hear. All I felt was terror and a desperation to live. Please, just don’t let it end here, just don’t, just don’t, just don’t—

            We went through some smaller pines. Then we hit a big one, and the car crumpled around it.

 

I don’t need to talk about what it was like when part of the engine came into the front seat and into my leg, making the bone go through the skin. I think about it enough. I don’t need to tell that part of the story.

            I don’t need to talk about seeing Asvald go through the windshield like a missile.

            I don’t need to talk about how I screamed.

            I don’t need to talk about how I managed to get the door open and my seatbelt off, or how I had to tear into my leg even more to get out of the car.

            I don’t need to talk about how I crawled to find my friend in the dark. I don’t need to talk about what he looked like when I found him.

            All I know is that when I did find him, I cried so hard that my tears turned to gold.


	64. Chapter 64

I sit by myself in the snow. It’s a cold night.

            Could be better. You know, if I didn’t fuck up everything I touch.

            You’d think I had no willpower at all. I knew it was a bad idea to go over to Isak’s, but I went anyway. He asked and I said yes. I said no first, and I should have stuck with it, but I’m weak. I’ll always be weak for him. I say yes when I should say no. That’s just what I do.

            I’m seated by the Man and Woman Sitting With a Baby Between Them. My cane rests beside me. It’s pretty fucking cold, and it’s too late for most sane people. Good thing I’m not amongst their number.

            I listen to the quiet, and the city beyond. At some point, I feel like someone will tell me I shouldn’t be here, and that I should go. That’s fine. I know I should go home soon. This is me being my usual weird, sentimental self.

            Mother, Father, Child. Obviously this is where I’d find myself. Part of me seriously considered going to my mother’s house and asking if I could sleep in my old room. It wouldn’t be my old bed, though. They got rid of that. Put a new one in for guests.

            Instead I find myself here. This place where we used to come together. Take pictures. Have fun. Act like a regular family.

            Before.

            Before me. The me that I turned into. Not the boy so full of promise that they had for over a decade. The broken boy. That’s what they got instead.

            I know I’m being dramatic. This is growing pains. Changing into something less stable, less sure. That was what I wanted. That’s what I chose.

            How could I choose that?

            Better to burn than fade away. And there I go, quoting a famous suicide note. That’s healthy.

            I should know by now. Shouldn’t I? I should know who I am and what I want and where I’m going. I’ll be 27 in a month and a half. I need to know these things. I can’t keep hurting other people and myself by living at the mercy of my whims. I need to understand why I do the things I do.

            I can’t blame bipolar for this. It’s me. It’s just me.

            I have to figure this out.

            But how?

 

I’m not surprised to see him. I watch him walk along the bridge, towards the fountain. He’s looking around, but he doesn’t see me. He’s not in a rush, just walking patiently. Head up, hands in his pockets.

            I wait until he’s close enough to be in earshot, then I raise my hand and call his name. “Isak!”

            He spots me, then puts his head down and walks right to me.

            I wince, rubbing my hands up and down my shins. I’m a little nervous right now, but not as bad as anything else I’ve felt the last while.

            When he gets up the stairs, he stops. He’s in his coat and scarf and hat, looking lovely as always. I do adore him. I always will. I just don’t know what that means.

            Isak lets out a sigh, then takes a few more steps. Once he’s in front of me, he chews on his lip for a moment. I just watch him. I don’t know what will happen next. I don’t know how this story goes.

            “I guess I thought you’d make it a little harder.”

            “Why?” I ask quietly.

            “You left.”

            “I needed to think.”

            “I asked you to stay.”

            “And I left. I’m sorry.”

            “Are you?”

            I nod, then look down at my hands. I thread them together, flexing them.

            Isak stands there another moment, then he sits down beside me.

            After a few seconds, Isak says, “We always did things out of order. You do that to me, you know. I think about what I’m going to do when I’m around you, and you’re so— _you_ that I just forget.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “I don’t want you to apologize. There isn’t anyone else like you. I wouldn’t like you as much as I do if you weren’t unique. But sometimes I forget the right order. We needed to talk, and we didn’t. I was just so happy you were in my house that I did what you wanted. Instead of what we should have done. Which is talk.”

            I look out over the snowy park. “Suppose you want to talk now.”

            “Yeah. Want to tell me what you’re thinking?”

            “I’m thinking…I’m scared my life is an accident.”

            “How do you mean?” Isak asks, pulling his scarf tighter.

            I raise my shoulders. It’s still easier to look down than at him. “When I was younger, I thought that life was like a movie, and you could be the director of your own life. But the older I got, I realized it was like you said. Just infinite possibility. I hate that. I’ve always hated that. It’s so much easier to think that things are like a script, because I’ve seen so many movies I should be able to guess what happens next. Real life, though. I don’t feel like I control my life. I’m certainly not directing it anywhere. Things just happen, and I do what other people tell me to without thinking about if it’s what I really want.”

            “Even, I don’t want you to do anything that—”

            “I’m not just talking about you. I’m talking about a lot of things. I get so scared of losing people that I say yes when I should say no.” I look at my leg. My leg that I don’t know will ever entirely heal. “I got in the car.”

            “Which car? The—the accident?’

            “I knew I shouldn’t. The voice inside me was saying not to. That it would be a mistake. But he was my friend and I loved him and I didn’t want him to be mad at me. So I got in. Maybe if I hadn’t—maybe I could have talked him into getting out of the car. Maybe he’d still be alive.”

            “Even—”

            “I know I can’t think like that. It’s done. But every relationship I’ve had, I’ve fucked it up by never thinking about things. Last thing I said to my father was what popped into my head. Didn’t think about it, I just said it. Mette—this fucking movie, I should have never agreed to have anything to do with it, but every time she wants me to come near to it I do, even though it feels like someone’s reaching in and pulling out my insides. And you—I know what I should do. I _know_. I’ve got this voice inside telling me what to do, what the right thing is to do, but it’s so hard to tell you no, and it’s so hard to _think_.”

            Isak waits until I’ve finished before speaking. “What are you more afraid of? That I’ll hurt you or you’ll hurt me?”

            “Both.”

            “Think about the answer. Then try again.”

            I frown. And I think.

            “I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve always been so scared of hurting you. I never once felt like I deserved you. This thing—this thing that’s wrong with my brain, it’s never going away. And that means I’m more likely to hurt you. Then there’s the thought of you walking out on me—again—and I can’t even…contemplate what my reaction would be.”

            “You know I’m scared too.”

            “I know.”

            “But I trust you.”

            “Why? How? I don’t even trust myself.”

            “Because—that’s how people work. There are things about ourselves that we just don’t know. I think there’s parts of me that you know better than I do. And there’s parts of you that I know better than you do. That’s how we learn about ourselves, sometimes. The way other people see us.”

            “You don’t know—what I’m really like—”

            “No. Because we lost four years. So I know who you were, and I know a bit of who you are now. And—” Isak raises his shoulders, shaking his head. “Even, I gotta know the rest. I just have to. I want to learn who you are.”

            “I don’t even know who I am.”

            “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

            “I don’t know where I’m going,” I tell him desperately. “Do you realize that? You have your life—your nice, ordered life, that turned out really well. And I know you think you want to do this, but in a few months I’ll be manic or depressed, and all that fucking chaos that you managed to push out of your life, that’s going to come back.”

            “You don’t have to be manic. You don’t have to be depressed.”

            “I do. That’s the price.”

            “For what?’

            “For burning as bright as I used to. I don’t…I don’t like the person that I am, Isak. You shouldn’t want to be near me on that alone. I’m a disaster. I always have been, of one kind or another. This is a game we already played. I don’t want to do it again.”

            “I like the person you are now.”

            “I don’t—”

            “And I liked the person you were. Because they were both you, you fucking idiot. On lithium, off lithium—you’re still Even Bech Næsheim. That’s what matters. Not if you have more or less of a chemical in your bloodstream. I’m here for _you_.”

            I want to stick my hands in the snow. I want some big shock that will make everything clear. “I don’t even know what you want. Not really. I mean, it was easy to fall into bed with you because that’s always been easy. But what do you want?”

            Isak glances up at the sky, then says with certainty, “A second chance.” He looks at me. “I’m not asking you for happy ever after, or perfect, or any of that. But you’re not the only one who’s changed. I used to have this attitude of ‘we’ll see what happens.’ Like we can’t control our fate. I don’t know if we can or not, but I know that I will fight until I break every single bone in my body if it means being happy. For me, that’s just being near you. Seeing your face, hearing your voice—making you _laugh_. Nothing has made me feel like this in years, and I don’t need order all the time. You understand that, don’t you? I don’t want chaos, but I’m not scared of change. I’m not scared of taking a risk whenever it comes to you. Christ, from the moment I saw you back on campus, I couldn’t believe my luck. There you were, like something from a story. A story I was lucky enough to be a part of. I don’t know if it would work between us if we tried again. I can’t say that I know that. What I can promise is that I would fight harder for you than anyone else ever has in your life. I would fight to make it work. Because this is what I want.”

            “You can’t know what it will be—”

            “No. But I want to find out. Don’t you?”

            “People can’t go backwards. They can’t fix the past.”

            “I’m not trying to. I want the you that’s here with me now.” Isak bobbles his head. “Admittedly, I’d prefer if you were on top most of the time again—not that tonight wasn’t good—but if we could bring back that bit, I’d be pleased.”

            I snort, looking away across the snow.

            I squeeze my fingers against my shins, leaning into the pain. “We were in love. I don’t know if I love you now. If that’s something you want, I don’t know if that’s something I’ve got to give you.”

            “I’m asking for a second chance, not your hand in marriage. It’s kind of early to talk about love.”

            “But do you love me?’

            We look at each other. Isak smiles slightly. “I’m always going to love you.”

            I close my eyes.

            I open them when he takes my hand. He’s careful about it, taking it in both of his and gently trying to rub some warmth into it. “What if we start with dinner and a movie? Like people do.”

            “Sounds boring.”

            “Do you have a better suggestion?”

            “Yeah. Run in the opposite direction from me.”

            “Even—”

            “What if it all goes wrong again? Do you know how many good things in my life have stayed good, Isak? They don’t. They don’t stay good. Do you—do you understand what you’re really asking from me?”

            He looks into my eyes and nods. “I’m asking you to trust me.”

            “How do I do that?”

            “You let me prove it. A day at a time. A minute at a time, if we have to.”

            “And if…if I really go crazy this time. If it’s too much, how do I know…”

            Isak inhales. “We can’t know the future. That’s not how it works. But I’m not going to push you into anything. I won’t say that I don’t want this. Even, I want you so badly that I feel like I’m wearing a sign around my neck telling the whole world every second of the day. If you want to think about this, though—then think about it. No grand gestures from me. No ultimatums, no big promises. Think about it. Think about what you want. And I’ll live with it.”

            I hesitate. “You mean it?”

            “Yeah,” Isak says, and I know he’s telling the truth.

            So I think about it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ends Part Two. There now follows a one week break. The final (very short) section starts on November 12th.


	65. How to End A Story

_I’m good with endings. I know where to cut a scene off, what the last line should be. I’m good with that last little punch so a thing stays with you while neatly wrapping itself up._

_I don’t know how this is supposed to end. If I was smart, it would end now, with the possibility of things laid out before me, not quite knowing where things go. On a hopeful note._

_But that’s not life. And I don’t know how this story ends._


	66. January

We go to dinners, and sit on each other’s couches, and make each other watch movies. I sit through approximately a million _Transformer_ movies. I make Isak watch the entire filmography of Anja Breien, even the shorts. He tries to retaliate by falling asleep on me each time, but I always jostle him awake.

            I hold his hand and he kisses me, but we don’t fuck again. Neither of us brings it up. Somehow we seem to be on the same wavelength about that. We talk about pretty much everything else. If I’m scared, if I have questions, I’ve promised to tell him, and I do. Sometimes we talk for hours, and either or both of us get frustrated, but we have a rule that if we leave mad, we have to call each other the next morning.

            When my mother finds out, I expect her to be happy. She’s the one who forced Isak and I back into each other’s presence after our big fight. Only she’s not. She’s wary, and asks me if that’s what I really want. To be doing this now, when I’ve stopped taking the lithium altogether.

            “You got back together with Dad,” I say, perplexed at the double standard. “You were happy.”

            “It’s different, sweetheart, and you know it.”

            Which sends me into a spiral of doubt that it takes three days for Isak to talk me back from.


	67. February

I take a bite of chicken tagine and let my eyes roll upwards. “Oh my God.”

            Yousef says smugly to Sana, “See? You just don’t appreciate it because I spoil you too much.”

            “Yes, you’re the greatest husband in the world,” Sana replies dryly. “Let me fall to my knees in worship.”

            I’m finally in their home, sitting at their dining room table. Isak to my right, Sana to my left, Yousef across from me. I can see above Yousef’s head to all the pictures on the wall. They’ve _travelled_. Pictures of them on some grassy plain, on the Great Wall, posing in front of a massive waterfall, larger than anything we have in Norway. In every single one, they look happy.

            It’s the first time Isak and I have been to dinner with another couple. We’ve kept to ourselves this last month. It seemed like a smart idea. That, and I’m paranoid that all his friends will hate me. He tells me not to assume the worst, that I’m being dramatic, but I don’t want to make the same mistakes I did last time.

            It was only when he started to get exasperated with me, asking if I intended to keep us a secret forever, that I caved. Sana finally had me on the phone, after Yousef had tried for weeks to get me to come over, and there’s no way to say no to Sana.

            “Is—” I wrapped my arm around myself, leaning against the fridge. “It okay if I bring Isak?”

            “Yeah, I suppose we haven’t seen him in awhile.”

            “I mean as my date.”

            There was a three second pause, then she quickly recovered. “Of course. Tell him that if he wants to drink, he’s on his own. There’s no alcohol in this house.”

            Isak points at his chicken with his fork and says, “Didn’t we have this in Morocco?”

            I shrug. “That was a _long_ time ago.”

            “Mm. I remember, though.” He says to Yousef, “Yours is better, though. Obviously.”

            Yousef looks at him, then snorts. “You’ve always been such an awful liar.”

            Tossing up his hands, Isak says, “What is it? What is it about my face that gives me away?”

            “Everything,” Sana says without hesitation.

            I nod, keeping a straight face. “Really, it _is_ everything.”

            He kicks me under the table, and I don’t know. I guess that’s when I realize that I still love him.

 

I ask him to come up to my place after dinner, and I guess my meaning is pretty clear from the tone of my voice. Isak glances over at me, keeping most of his focus on the road. “Do I have to watch Murnau again?”

            “Nope,” I reply.

            He barely holds back his smile. “Then I’d love to.”

            When he’s in my apartment and our things are hung up, we both stand there a second, unsure. Then Isak puts his hands to his face and lets out a melodramatic groan.

            “How did this used to be so easy?” he asks.

            I laugh, and move towards him, saying, “Come here.”

            He doesn’t get a chance, because by the time he lowers his hands, I’m kissing him. He makes a happy humming sound, wrapping his arms around my waist. I love to have my fingers in his hair, brushing my thumbs against his cheekbones as our mouths press together, as I touch my tongue inside his mouth.

            We stumble together towards my bed, laughing at each other. He’s eager, and I’m eager, and we pull shirts from waistbands and undo buttons, and we’re still mostly clothed when he tosses me down on the bed.

            “Ah,” I say, “be careful.”

            He’s on top of me, and he lifts his head, forehead creasing with worry. “Did I hurt you?”

            I shake my head. “No.”

            “If I did, you need to tell me.”

            I slip my hands into his pants and underwear, pushing them down over his ass, and his eyes close. “I’m tougher than I look.”

            “Mm, don’t I know it,” he says, nearly biting my mouth, and I flip him over.

 

I’m a fluttering sweaty mess, and so happy it’s hard to think. So I don’t say anything. Eventually, it’s Isak, flat on his stomach, who lets out a mixture of groan and purr and whine.

            I look over, chuckling. “You all right?’

            He lifts his head, hair all over the place, drooping over the left side of his forehead. Squinting, he asks, voice raw, “How’d I keep my hands off you for a _month_?”

            Grinning, I suggest, “Respecting my need for space?”

            “Well, we’re done with that,” he replies, lurching across the damp sheets until he falls face down on my chest. “Mph.”

            I laugh, reaching up to comb through his hair with my fingers. “You’re so silly.”

            “I was just fucked by a genuine sex god. I’m responding the only way I can.” He props himself up, digging an elbow into my ribs, and I hiss. He doesn’t seem to care, getting comfortable, so he can look into my eyes. “Thanks.”

            “For what? The sex?”

            He nods. “Yes. The sex.”

            “You’re welcome?”

            “It’s not just that, though.”

            “Oh, good.”

            “Last time was good, but the whole time you looked so _sad_. Like, I could just look at you and see that once we came, you’d be out the door.” He rests his pointy chin on his hands, and I touch the little divot in his chin. “You didn’t look sad this time.”

            “What did I look like?”

            “A sex god.” I laugh, and Isak blows my hair off my forehead. I make a face. No one likes having air blown in their face. “You looked into it. You looked like you were here with me.”

            The sheets are cooling under us, and I want to have a shower. I want to have a shower with him. “I am.”

            “Yeah. I know. I like it.”

            I rub a hand over his side. “Do you still worry?” I ask, curious. “That you’ll wake up and I’ll be gone?”

            “No.”

            “No?”

            “You’d be an idiot if you did,” Isak says. “We’re in _your_ fucking house.”

            I start to tickle him, and he yelps, struggling to fight back, and we end up falling off the bed in a tangle of sheets. I have a bruise on my hip that lasts a week and a half, but in the moment, I laugh until it hurts.


	68. March

I stay up late. It’s difficult to sleep.

            It’s hard to sleep with so many _ideas_.

            Everyone is keeping a very close eye on me. As soon as I said I was having a hard time sleeping instead of being exhausted all the time, it’s like a siren went off. Even Defense Squad, assemble!

            I draw. I draw until my hand cramps. I spend three days on a comic about the doomed 3-way love story of Mickey and Minnie Mouse and Nemi, before Isak reminds me that I should be working on my short stories and I abandon the comic and pound out something really bizarre about that Bavarian king who built the castles and whose name I don’t know and don’t bother to look up.

            I ask Isak his honest opinion of the story, his very honest opinion, and his face contorts in all sorts of ways before I coax out of him, “I didn’t really…get it?”

            “Ah, fuck,” I mutter, and go to throw the pages out the window.

            Isak gets in front of me before I can, both hands up. “Maybe hold onto it until you come down.”

            I do, because I promised Irene I wouldn’t destroy anything or make any major decisions while I’m hypomanic. Which I am, in her professional opinion and my amateur but experienced one.

            Hypomania is excellent. It is. It’s the best I’ve felt in years and eons, and I am still self aware, very much so, but I don’t bother hating myself because that seems like such a fucking waste.

            Hypomania is more hours in the day. It’s not being afraid of walking in the snow. It’s leaving my cane behind on the days I don’t need it. It’s kissing my boyfriend’s cheek repeatedly until he laughs and then tackling him to the ground. It’s singing along even if I don’t know the words, and almost getting my nose pierced and churning out thousands of words a day. It’s happiness trapped in my hands, and I know it won’t last, but I intend to chase it as long as I can.

            I made the right decision.

            About all of it. About the lithium, about coming home, about Isak, about cutting myself some fucking slack. I’ve done okay, and I’m doing okay, and maybe nothing lasts, but I’ll enjoy what I have.

            Hypomania brushes aside my doubt.


	69. April

I crash.

            I understand what is happening. I just don’t want to believe that it is. I was good through so much of the month. I’ve been so good the last month and a half. So why this? Why does it have to be like this?

            Because it’s inevitable. This is what I am.

            I woke up ten minutes ago and I haven’t left my bed. I am scared. I’m terrified. But it’s not enough to move me. I’m lying here, on my side, staring at the bedside table. It has a lamp on it, and my phone. A picture of my mother and Isak and I at dinner a few weeks ago. I don’t understand how we could look so happy.

            I thought I was sick. This past week. I mean, actually sick, not crazy. I was tired, and a little listless, but I could still get up. I could do things. I went out. Isak and I went to the movies the other night. I was able to do that.

            Now I can’t move.

            I am afraid.

            There’s no reason to get out of this bed. I don’t have a job. I don’t have real responsibilities, not like an actual person. I don’t think I am an actual person. I’m a diagnosis wrapped in skin. No one cares if I get out of this bed.

            But they do. Mom will worry. Isak will worry.

            He’ll leave me. If he knows I feel like this. If he knows I can’t get out of bed.

            He left before I woke up. He stayed here last night. He’s got keys. I can’t keep him out. If I don’t call or message him, he’ll know something’s wrong. He’ll unlock the door and see me here and toss the key down and never come back. That’s what he should do. That’s what he’ll do if he knows.

            I’m going to lose him _again_ because I’m crazy.

            I could get up. It’s not hard. It’s putting my legs over the side of the bed. It’s sitting up. It’s pushing myself onto my feet. These are attainable things. I should be able to do them.

            Only this bed is safe. It doesn’t ask questions of me. It doesn’t have expectations. I can be here and quiet and think my thoughts and not have to lie. I can keep my head down. I can rest.

            This is not resting. This is depression. It doesn’t get better if I lie here. It will get worse. One day turns into two, into a week, into a month, into my fucking boyfriend with his tongue in someone else’s mouth because I’m not worth waiting for.

            I close my eyes. My eyelids are heavy. My whole body has weights attached to it. The bed is an ocean and I will sink to the bottom. The man who could breathe under water. Why would he want to? No one else can, and it’s dark and cold and so very, very lonely.

            I _have_ to get up.

            I don’t _have_ to do anything. No one cares.

            Mom cares.

            She’s been through this before. She’ll be here when it ends.

            Isak.

            Isak will leave. He’ll finally see that he made a mistake. He was so stubborn about getting me back, but that was the surface stuff. That’s the façade I wear so that people don’t hate me. So they don’t think I’m a waste of space. That what I really am is this—a grown man who can’t get out of his bed.

            We’ve had three good months. We had three years, and now three months, and now I am on my own again. It’s only a matter of time. I knew it was only a matter of time. I knew I couldn’t keep him. He’s so good, and I’m not.

            I don’t want to be this. Only this is what I am. I chose this. I chose to be crazy. Why would he want that? He already has a crazy mother, and he works with crazy people. A crazy boyfriend is more than he can stand. I know it.

            He told me he’d stay. When this happened. Not if, when. He told me he’d stay.

            He didn’t last time.

            He was a kid then.

            He’s a kid _now_ , he’s 24, how much could have changed in four years. He left then, he will leave now.

            I feel myself breathing. I’m very conscious of it. Rising up, coming down. Rising up, coming down. This bed is a trap.

            Except it feels safe. And doesn’t. I know and I don’t.

            I don’t want to be this. I do _not_ want to fucking be this.

            I refuse. I—Even Bech Næsheim—refuse.

            It takes more effort than it should, and no normal person would ever understand. I unstick my arm from my chest, and I inch my fingers across the mattress. I stop a few times, and I hate myself. I hate myself for being weak, for being this thing, for being so small and inconsequential and still such a destructive force in the lives of those who have the misfortune of loving me.

            Then I reach out and grab my phone.

            I pull it right in front of my face. My heart is beating too hard. I don’t like it. I tap my thumb on the screen, then select my contacts. I don’t make a lot of phone calls, just texts. I scroll through until I find Isak.

            If I don’t do this now I’ll never have the courage again—

            I touch his name and bring the phone to my ear.

            I don’t know what I’ll do if he doesn’t pick up. It’s a sign if he doesn’t. A sign that I shouldn’t rely on him, that it’s just me, just me and the bed, and this is all I’ve got—

            “Hello?”

            The sound of his voice wrenches something inside me. Grabs and tugs. I don’t know if I can take it. I’m crushed by a wave of love and shame and misery and gratitude.

            I have to swallow a few times before I can speak, and Isak is already asking, “You okay?’

            I hear the caution in his voice. I bet he already knows what’s coming. I don’t want to do this to him—

            Speak. He loves you, so speak.

            “Need help,” I murmur.

            A few seconds pass, then he asks quietly, “Not feeling good?”

            “That’s…an understatement.”

            “Okay,” Isak says, and I hear him already planning. Good. I need someone to take over. “Okay—Even, I have a meeting in an hour, but I’ll see about bumping it up. No matter what, I’ll be there by 14:00. Can you get up?”

            “I don’t know,” I say, my voice cracking.

            “Okay,” Isak soothes. “Can you try for me right now? Can you sit up for me?”

            I put my hand down, bracing my elbow against the mattress. Please. This is so easy. I know it. I have to do this for him. I want to be of worth for him, I don’t want to be a weight he carries.

            I get my legs over the side of the bed, then push myself up. I lean my shoulder against the wall, closing my eyes.

            “I’m sitting up,” I whisper.

            “Good,” Isak says. “That’s my brave man.”

            I start to cry.

 

He comes over a half hour earlier than he said he might, and I’m sitting on the floor of the bathroom rocking myself and listing Japanese directors’ filmographies and I’ve made it to Masaki Kobayashi. The sight of Isak makes me weep so hard that I’m near hysterical, insisting he’ll leave me.

            And somehow I end up in his lap, my long limbs all over the place, and he’s rocking me, arms squeezing me, repeating endlessly, “I won’t leave you. I won’t leave you. I won’t leave you.” I don’t know if I believe him. But he’s here.  


	70. May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last day of updates, and some thank yous are very much in order. First and foremost, xJuniperx and Cymbelines, one half of my beloved Scribbler Squad, to whom this story was dedicated, are always the most supportive and enthusiastic of readers, and even better than that, they're amazing friends. I love you both and would gladly sponsor your immigration to Canada. 
> 
> To everyone else who came to the story and loved it, you get all the hugs. This story was a very hard sell--I was pretty sure that it was going to end with 500 views, given the initial reception. But we're about to hit 3000, and that's all thanks to word of mouth and recs, and I am so grateful. To Team Mystery Fic, you're all beautiful and adorable, and your devotion to this story is incredible. 
> 
> So, friends--let's settle in for the last few chapters. Let's see how it ends, shall we?
> 
> __

We’re making dinner when my phone rings. I pull it out as I open the fridge door to find the vinaigrette, and make a sound from the back of my throat.

            Isak looks up from the stove. “Who is it?”

            “Mette.”

            He shrugs, stirring the tomato sauce. “Ignore it.”

            I push his head from behind, making him hiss. “You’re so antisocial.” I answer the phone, leaning back against the counter so I can look at him while I talk. “Hello, Mette.”

            “Hey.” Her voice sounds ragged, and she sniffs almost immediately.

            I raise my brows. “Everything okay?”

            Isak looks and whispers murderously, “We’re eating in five minutes.”

            Nodding, I listen as she says, “The movie fell through.”

            Oh. I blink, then say, “It what?”

            “It’s not happening. The financing just—I thought we were all good to go, and then all of a sudden we’re not, and—I think it’s off. I think it’s just not happening.”

            “The movie’s not happening,” I say, more to Isak than for clarification. He drops his head back, then mimes a dagger to the heart before rolling his eyes.

            I bite the side of my mouth, trying not to smile. I half listen as Mette sniffles through a story that involves a Lithuanian financier and creative disagreements, reaching out to play with the curls at the nape of Isak’s neck. He smiles faintly.

            When the timer on the stove goes off, I say, “Mette, I’m so sorry. I’ve got to go, I’m actually out right now.”

            “Oh,” she says, and she sounds hurt. But I can’t heal wounds, and sometimes things just need to sting. Also, I’m hungry, and sometimes I’m not a good person. “Yeah, of course, I just—thought I’d let you know.”

            Pinning the phone between my ear and shoulder, I pick up the pot of spaghetti and take it to the strainer, sitting in the sink. “There’s always other projects. I know this sucks, but you’re brilliant, and I know things will all turn out for the best.”

            “Right. I’ll talk to you later.”

            “Talk to you later. Take care.” I pull the phone away from my ear, ending the call.

            Isak’s leaning against the counter, one hand on his hip. “How relieved are you right now?”

            “I don’t know that I could put it into words. That whole thing was fucking cursed.” I shake the extra water off the pasta, then pour it back into the pot. “And I learned a valuable lesson. Next time someone asks if they can have my story, I say no. It’s mine to tell.”

            He makes a face, and says, “It wasn’t cursed.”

            I arch a brow. “I’ve told you about the first time I met Frode, right?”

            Isak slides a hand up my back. “If the movie hadn’t existed, I wouldn’t have seen you standing on campus. Looking like something—well, out of a movie.”

            I laugh a little. “You didn’t look too bad.”

            “Yeah, but there you were, in the sunlight, right in front of an angel, looking all dignified with your cane.” His hand moves up into my hair, and he leans up to kiss me. I oblige him, because I’d be an idiot not to.

            I chuckle when he doesn’t seem inclined to stop. “Dinner.”

            “Fuck dinner. You’re hot.”

            Hard to argue with that tongue. But it took me a really long time to get the tomato sauce right. “The food will get cold.”

            Isak pulls back and I get the full power of those green eyes. “We could eat, or I could blow you right now.”

            I give it a beat, then reply, “And people wonder why I’m so thin.”


	71. June

When I wake up, I immediately know what day it is, and I am excited to get things started. I have plans for Isak, because I’ve missed four birthdays, and I have a lot to make up for—

            He’s not here.

            What the fuck. I sit up, looking around. I’m in his bed, and it’s early. Isak doesn’t wake up early. I practically need an air siren to get him up in the mornings.

            “Isak?” I say, yawning. I push my hair back from my face, squinting at the doorway. There’s a light on out there. He must be in the kitchen. What time is it? I set my alarm for 07:00, because I wanted to get a start on the day, but I must have woken up before it—

            My phone is gone.

            This is very strange. Ah. He’s playing a game.

            “Isak,” I call, tossing aside the blankets. I stretch as I walk out of his bedroom. “What are you doing? It’s _your_ birthday, I’m supposed to be the one who—”

            He’s not in the kitchen. But my phone is lying on the table with a note under it.

            I get a little jolt of worry, and try to think of anything objectionable that might be on my phone. I certainly don’t see him going through it for any reason. I don’t think I have anything that merits snooping.

            Frowning, I walk over to the table and put my fingertips on the note. It says, ‘Watch me.’

            I pick up my phone and have a seat at his table. When I unlock the phone, it goes right to a video. It’s Isak, sitting in the living room.

            Silly man. I don’t know what he’s up to. But I press play.

 

“Hi, Even. Ah—I know you, and I know that you probably have all these things planned, but—because it’s my birthday, I think we should do something that I want. And I want to tell you some things. I’m not really good at that. You’re the one who’s good with words, but I want to tell you what I’ve been thinking. Okay.

            “So, the last five months have been really great. If you’d asked me last year what I’d be doing, it wouldn’t be this. I know it wouldn’t be for you either. If I haven’t said it enough times already, I am so glad you came back. Not just to the city. I mean, I’m sure the city loves you, but not as much as I do. No one’s going to love you the way I do.

            “You…are the most important thing to ever happen to me. And I don’t want to scare you, I’m not going to ask you to marry me in a video or anything. I mean—you get this look on your face when people ask if we think about getting married, and it looks like you want to run across the North Sea, so don’t worry. That’s not what this is. I mean—someday, yes, if you’ll stop having that look on your face, but not right now. So please don’t worry.

            “Um…what was I talking about?

            “Right. Ah—I made notes. See? I actually have a list. I don’t want to forget all that I want to tell you.

            “You have always been the most important thing to happen to me. Like—I have a good life? It’s been good, and the years that we weren’t together, my life was pretty good. I have my friends, and my family, and my job, and school was good and all that. But my life was never more than good. It’s like when you talk about being on and off lithium. There’s being in neutral, and it’s bearable, and that’s how most people live their lives, but it’s also confining. And that’s what life is like when you’re not with me. When I’m with you…things are more real. They’re more—vibrant. Maybe it’s not the healthiest thing to not feel like you’re your very best without another person, but that’s the truth for me. I feel that I am my best when I am with you.

            “And that’s because you’re so fucking special. You are. You so are, and you don’t even see it most of the time. That drives me crazy. Everyone can see that you’re extraordinary, everybody but you, and I will keep telling you until you believe me. I’ll keep saying it even if you never believe me. I still can’t believe you chose me. Because I’m ordinary. The only not ordinary thing about me is you, and I guess there’s nothing really bad with being ordinary? But once you’ve been with someone extraordinary, it’s impossible to move backwards.

            “And, like…you didn’t just choose me once, you’ve chosen me _again_ , and that is so brave. I admire you. I admire that you can be so brave like that, when maybe you shouldn’t be. Hell, I wouldn’t have given me a second chance. But you have, and I hope that I keep proving to you that I’m worthy of that.

            “I just wanted to tell you that—I hope I’m never the most important thing in your life. What I mean is, I’m happy with you being my best thing. But you have so many different things to do and be, and you just—sometimes I feel like your heart and your brain just get overfull with all you have to offer. I want you to…explore, and be brave, and be the best that you can. Because you deserve that, and I love to watch you when you do those things.

            “I’m putting this in a video so that you won’t interrupt me. You wouldn’t let me say nice things, true things about you, without a fight. But I need you to know that I understand what you’ve given me, and I know that I can’t promise you forever or perfect, because those aren’t things that actually exist. I’ll try to give you everything else I’ve got, though, because…that’s what you’re worth. It’s what you’ve always been worth.

            “So…basically, I wanted to say that you are the best gift that I could have gotten for my birthday. Or any day. And yes, I know I’m blushing, so shut up, and I know that’s corny, but I don’t care. I’m not worried about being sentimental when it comes to you. I feel braver, being yours.

            “And that’s what I’ll always be. Even if this doesn’t last, if you come to your senses and take off, I’m always going to be yours. Because how could I not be?

            “To prove it…fuck. I can’t believe I’m going to show you this. Okay, so—these books, these are my agendas from the last four years. We’ll just flip to a random page—okay, see? Next book—that one too. And…this one. And this one too.

            “Every day, Even. Every day for the past five years, I’ve written 21:21. Even when we weren’t together. I don’t know if you’ll think that’s sad or romantic or pathetic—probably all three—but that’s something I’ve always done.

            “Oh God. I can’t believe I’m showing you this. I must be crazy. But there’s worse things than crazy.

            “Okay, I’m going to stop now and go get some coffee and hopefully you won’t be too upset that I took off before work. I kind of knew I wouldn’t be able to make this for you and then look you in the eyes for a few hours. Whatever you have planned for tonight, I’m sure I’ll love it. Saying ‘I love you’ after all this seems sort of redundant, but…I love you. So much.

            “Okay, bye!”

 

I squint up at the sky. It’s a warm day, and if I had less self respect I’d wear shorts, but even I have my limits. Not that I’m a fashion plate, but these skinny legs will see no sun unless I can persuade my boyfriend to go swimming.

            It’s late afternoon, sun high, and people are out, probably going home for the day. Some of them are kids, and I wonder where they’ll go, what they’ll do with their lives. The possibilities are endless. I look at them and play the story game.

            I left Isak a text that only said, ‘You’ll know where to find me.’ Plenty of things change, evolve. Some things don’t need to.

            I give my leg a little kick. It’s a bit stiff, but it hasn’t hurt in awhile. The dramatic cane is resting in the closet at my place. Gathering dust. I thought about mounting it on my wall, but I find that I don’t really need to commemorate my injury.

            Some things just need to be let go.

            If I look right now, I wonder if I’ll see him coming. I’ll turn and see him across the square, like in a movie. That would be perfect.

            I look. I don’t see him.

            I laugh at myself, then glance up at the angel. I really should find out what its story is. After all this time, maybe it’s time to learn that tale.

            Every thirty seconds or so, I look back over my shoulder, waiting for the moment when the light is right, and I see the love of my life. It takes some time.

            But then finally, I look back, like I haven’t been anticipating him, and there he is, coming across the square with his bag over his shoulder and a sweater across his arm. Isak catches sight of me, and affection spreads across his face. He stops for just a second, like he’s appreciating the sight of me.

            And I smile, as if the moment simply happened. As if happiness is not a thing worked for, fought for, made.


	72. Nothing Ends Until You Die

_Last night Isak asked if I knew the story of Freyja and_ _Óðr. Surprised, I said, “Do you?”_

_He pushed my chest, but didn’t move any further. He was wrapped up in my arms under the blankets, and I was stroking his hair. I wasn’t sure why he was talking about Freya and Óðr, of all things, so I asked why he brought it up._

_He didn’t say anything for awhile. “I worry,” he said at last._

_I touched his chin. “No one’s going to cry tears of gold.”_

_“I might.”_

_“Shh.”_

_“Freyja survives Ragnarok,” Isak said, and shivered._

_“But that’s good.”_

_“How the fuck is that good?”_

_“Because then the story doesn’t end.”_

_“You and your goddamn stories.”_

_I shifted, so I could look in his eyes. “This is how I see it. Stories don’t end until the people it’s about are dead. But proper dead.”_

_Dubious, Isak said, “Why are we being morbid?”_

_“No, listen. A story isn’t really a story unless it has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Otherwise it’s just jerking off. It’s a literary exercise. But a love story, it doesn’t end until the protagonists die. Even if one person is gone, the story continues, because the other person is living with it, surviving with it in their mind. So it doesn’t stop. It keeps going, even if it’s only a memory. That’s the thing about love stories. The good ones never really end.”_

_“What about your tragic romances?”_

_“Doesn’t change the fact that they’re still love stories. Love always exists, is always happening. Multiverses of love.” He smiled at that, and I kissed his forehead._

_Then he said, “Does this mean that day to day life is just jerking off?”_

_“Suppose so,” I said, and he laughed. He asked me if I was excited to pass the manuscript in to my mother tomorrow, and I said that I was._

_I can dress them up as much as possible, but I am tired of tragic romances. I’ve lived and breathed tragedy for too long, willingly and not. It’s high past time to let that obsession go. Not sure what comes next. Then again, I rarely do._

_It’s a strange way to be in the world, drifting and also navigating with purpose. I’m not sure how I’ve managed through so many different extremes. I didn’t always have a choice, but I’ve had plenty as well. I haven’t always made the right decisions, and I doubt I ever will._

_I don’t know what comes next. That’s not a very good ending, I know._

_But I’m sick of endings too. I don’t think that it’s a beginning, either. I think it’s the middle. I think I’m just living. And maybe that’s not a great story, but Christ, I’m ready to live._

_So I do._


End file.
